


Darkness There, and Nothing More

by primalrage



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gothic, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Horror, M/M, Victorian, Young Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Young Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, but it's definitely consensual after that lol, in the beginning there's some borderline dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalrage/pseuds/primalrage
Summary: Gothic Victorian Era AU - Jack Morrison, bachelor and heir to a tremendous fortune, is sent by his parents to spend the social season with his cousin overseas, in hopes that he might find a debutante to make his wife. However, instead of finding a beautiful young woman to court, he finds himself wrapped up in a mystery - his new home seems to be haunted by a restless spirit with possessive claims over Jack's heart.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 130
Kudos: 374





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was somewhat based on a suggestion that was posted in my Discord. Feel free to join us there! There's only like 4 of us, but I really love hearing feedback and requests from everyone. You guys are AMAZING. I write for myself first and foremost, but this positivity means the world to me. If I could gift every single one of my readers with a fic of their own, I totally would! ~ https://discord.gg/whwyNgt
> 
> This was mostly written in October, and I intended to post it on Halloween, but it ended up being longer than I had initially planned and didn't get finished. Then I got sick and stayed sick the ENTIRE MONTH of November T_T So I'm only just getting around to posting this. Sorry that it's not really seasonally appropriate anymore.
> 
> I would like to add that this was somewhat inspired by several Sarah Waters novels. If you like this at all, or even if you don't like it but enjoy the genre, then I recommend checking her out!

The moorland stretched to the horizon like a dreary green sea, its hills the cresting waves, a pale fog rising like seafoam. If not for a sky the color of old bathwater, the scenery might have been beautiful. Jack Morrison, a young man who had grown up on fecund farmlands, pulled back the thin curtain and glanced out the carriage's window, already homesick for clear blue skies and golden fields of corn. He imagined, if not for the rattling of the wheels over the uneven, unkempt roads, that this desolate landscape would be as silent as death. No birdsong, no chirping insects, merely the hollow wail of the frigid, early Spring wind.

He wondered, sourly, if his parents still would have demanded he make the long journey out here if they had seen how gloomy this country was. His mother, in particular, would have been horrified - nearly a full day's drive from downtown, and not a neighbor in sight; if he were to have an accident out here, it would be the end of him. He couldn't wait to sit down and write her a letter, informing her in a casual, pleasant tone of how awful it all was out here. Maybe she could convince his father to send him back home. 

There came a tapping on the other side of the carriage, startling him from his brooding. It was the coachman, trying to get his attention. "Master Morrison," he called, "you'll be able to see the house now, if you look out to your right."

Jack scooted across the seat to the other window and took his first look ay the home he would be staying at this spring and summer. The sight filled him with equal parts awe and dread. It was a behemoth of a building, in a Gothic revival style. Even from this distance, he could make out the ornately detailed parapets and the tall lancet windows. It was all of dark stone, two stories with a taller central tower, making it resemble a castle more than it did a house. He expected to find gargoyles perched on the roof and gables, but there were none that he could see. The grounds needed attention; brambles and ivy grew up its face and the topiary had become overgrown and gnarled. The entire construction was heavy and graceless, and the word looming came to mind.

He felt like a prisoner, catching a first glimpse of the prison where he would be serving his sentence. 

The nearer they came to the house, Jack could see some activity around its entrance. A carriage, far nicer than his own and led by a team of four bay Hackney stallions, was stopped at the door. He could see a coachman tending to the animals and a second man inside the home itself, opening windows on the first story. Jack tensed in his seat; according to his parents, no one had lived in this home for two generations at the very least. No one was meant to be here. He had a bad feeling about this, and he wished that he had thought to come armed. 

As soon as his carriage had stopped, he jumped out to confront the stranger, pushing past the coachman and his butler who were attempting to help him down. No sooner had he taken the first step up towards the great oak doors than the intruder had flung them open and was racing down the stairs. 

"Jack!" he cried, gripping him by the arms and appraising him, his eyes brimming with emotion, "My God. It has been ages. I've missed you so!"

"Vincent..." Jack said, offering him a weak smile, "I've missed you, too." Vincent had put on some weight since Jack had last seen him two years ago, and he had lost a little color to his complexion, but he was still heartbreakingly handsome. The way that his smile lit up his face was like seeing a lake touched by sunlight, and Jack would have gladly dove in and drowned there. It felt so good to speak his name again. It was a name he had spoken so many times that it nearly felt like his own. 

"I thought I might surprise you, but, my God, Jack, I had no idea this place was so dreadful. Why didn't your parents pay to have it cleaned a bit before your arrival?" He pulled away from Jack, aware of the eyes of Jack's servants watching them, and he led the way into the house. 

The entrance was magnificent, with vaulted ceilings and columns of marble framing a grand staircase. On the landing, a stained glass window cast a faint glow in the poor, cloudy light. There were cobwebs in every corner, and a layer of dust on everything, but to Jack it didn't seem that awful. Not as bad as the outside, at least. "Vince, I can have my maids sweep up. It's nothing."

"Nonsense, Jack. Your mother and father want you to become a proper gentleman, and a gentleman doesn't live in a place this filthy," Vincent said. "Just come back with me, and when your staff has made this place livable, you can come right back."

"I appreciate the offer, but that's really unnecessary," Jack said, "I just got here. I haven't even had a chance to look around."

"Then let's look around!" Vincent said, "If you'd like, we can even spend the night here. But, please, allow me to drag you back to Springfield Hall until this place has been sorted."

Jack wanted to continue to protest. Vincent's home, Springfield Hall, was a lovely property only a couple of hours ride away and much closer to the city center, but going there sounded like torture. He didn't want to bare witness to Vincent's married life; the wounds were still fresh and raw. But they had once been so, so close. There was no way that he could decline the offer politely without revealing to Vincent how bitter and hurt he truly was. With a sigh, he conceded, "Very well."

Vincent clapped him on the shoulder, another brilliant smile taking over his charming face. "Let me go communicate the plans with my driver and your staff," he said, "And then we can take a tour of the place together!" He hurried back outside, and Jack saw him practically skip down the front steps. His lips curled up into a soft, faint grin. He knew that Vincent was so excited to spend time with him, and he was glad to be around his old friend again. He just wished with his whole heart that things could be the way they once had. 

Jack wandered deeper into the house, past the staircase and into a beautiful salon. There was a fireplace clogged with old ashes and logs that had nearly turned to charcoal, around which was arranged furniture upholstered in maroon velvet. Elegant portraits and still life paintings hung from the walls, some of them longer and wider than Jack was tall. He studied the many faces, finding that all of them had been done by a master, but none of them bore him expressions of welcome. Overhead, a balcony ran along the second floor landing, so that anyone upstairs could look down into the salon and anyone on either floor could look up at the stunning vaulted ceiling, with glass panes between arched beams that let in dusky light. All of this was nothing like Jack had seen before in his life. It didn't make sense to him that he now owned this place. And why had it come this way, still furnished but left to disrepair? 

A floorboard creaked behind him, and he spun around. 

Vincent had come up from the entrance hall and stood admiring the architecture. "Quite Gothic," he said.

"What happened to the last owners?" Jack asked.

"Oh, it's been empty for ages," Vincent said, and he slipped his arm through Jack's and led the way across the salon. Jack stiffened, and Vincent noticed it, the smile falling from the handsome face. "Do you hate me, Jack?" 

"Please, Vincent," Jack said, "You know I could never hate you. I don't want to talk about this."

"So shall we avoid the topic for the rest of our lives?" Vincent sighed.

Jack didn't know how to answer this, because he _wanted_ to avoid the topic for the rest of their lives, and into death if necessary. He didn't want to talk about how he had once loved Vincent with whole heart and soul, or how hurt he was by Vincent's marriage, nor did he wish for Vincent to feel guilty for these things. Jack liked to blame the world they lived in. If Vincent could have married him, he would have. Right? 

Both his thoughts and their conversation were cut short when they stepped through a doorway into the next room. It was an opulent library, at least half the length of the manor or more, and every wall was lined with bookshelves stacked with thousands and thousands of books, more than Jack had ever seen in his life, more than he had imagined had even been written. He pulled away from Vincent to run a finger along the spines on the nearest shelf. Aside from the layer of dust, they were in remarkable condition. The entire room smelled pleasantly of old parchment and leather bindings. Jack breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, and he imagined the cool spring nights he might spend in here, with a light blanket draped over his legs and one of the classics cracked open on his lap. 

"I don't understand," he said, opening his eyes and giving Vincent a hard look, "Why would no one claim these things?" His parents had purchased this place so cheap. Yes, it was farther from the city than most places of similar size and luxury, but due to its furnishings, from the priceless paintings on the wall to the exquisite rugs beneath his feet, something seemed wrong to him. 

"Don't worry so much, Jack," Vincent said, "Most likely no one realized it was still furnished. You've gotten lucky! Come, let's continue looking around."

So they did. They found a music room tucked beyond the library, still home to a magnificent piano, and adjacent to that was a dining room with space for thirty guests to sit comfortably around the gigantic cherry wood table. Down the corridor from the dining room was a drawing room with gilded furniture and a masterpiece of a fresco painted on the ceiling, some kind of depiction of a battle between angels and the devil's army of fallen angels. They found a door that lead to the servant's corridors, the only barren parts of the manor, although taking the stairs down into the kitchen, they discovered thousands of pieces of cookware and silverware, as well as a collection of fine china and glassware. Not so much as a single cup was chipped. 

All of this just further confused Jack, as they returned back to the grand staircase to explore the upstairs. He would have expected at least the kitchen and library to be cleared out, if not by the previous owners than at the very least by looters. 

Upstairs, his shock was only magnified, as they found that the hall overlooking the first floor salon was decorated with museum-quality sculptures of marble - busts of handsome heroes, a woman in a veil carved so finely it looked like real fabric, a hunter wrestling with a stag, and many more. He admired each piece, even stopping to touch them, something he had never been permitted to do in a museum gallery. The marble was dusty and cool to the touch. Vincent nudged him, smiling, and he cupped a hand on the hunter's flexing buttocks, "Looks like you have a handsome new friend, Jack. Should I be jealous?"

It took all of Jack's concentration to maintain his smile, but he was certain Vincent saw his quick wince at the joke. They finished the rest of the tour in somber silence, avoiding each other's eyes as they admired the dozen rooms, each of which with its own unique decor and color scheme, and not so much as a candelabra out of place. It was clear no one had stepped foot into these rooms in many years, perhaps in many decades. Even the mice droppings they saw in the corners were overlaid with a thick grey blanket of dust. At the end of the upstairs hall, beside the servant's staircase, was a heavy wooden door, presumably leading up into the tower, but the door was locked, and no amount of force would convince it to open. "There will be a skeleton key," Vincent assured him, "Your butler may already have it."

Jack knew a ring of many keys had been passed from his parents to the butler they had hired, so he nodded and led the way back downstairs. His new staff, most of whom were people he had only met that morning, were already unloading crates and luggage from the caravan of carriages. He wove between them, careful not to get in the way, but Vincent grabbed one of the maids by the shoulder. "Mister Morrison and I would like to take our lunch in the salon. Whatever is easiest to unpack at the time is just fine. And please have the butler meet us with the house keys while we wait."

The girl nodded and hurried off towards the kitchens, and Vincent steered Jack into the salon. They sat close on the velvet couch before the filthy old fireplace, and Vincent propped his legs up on the table before them and let his head rest on Jack's shoulder. Jack couldn't help but smile. It felt so much like the old days, when they spent countless afternoons like this in the rooms of his parents' home, just loving each other's company and loving each other. He wanted to remark how glad he was to be there, or how much he had missed Vincent, but the words just wouldn't come out. The true reason for his visit was too unpleasant. He was not there to reconnect with his old flame Vincent, nor to get closure either. Instead, he had been sent here by his parents to be paraded around by Vincent throughout the social season - attending extravagant events, meeting rich socialites, and ultimately seeking a wife with whom to start a family. As pleasant as this peaceful moment with his dearest friend was, there was no denying the dreadful future that this visit was meant to lead to. 

"You know," Vincent said softly, "I only did it so that I could be close to you. I really thought - " 

Vincent snapped his mouth closed with a tiny click of his teeth and jumped upright in his seat. A maid had entered with their lunch, a loaf of bread with some cheeses and fruit jams, as well as a pot of tea and two cups, still damp from their recent wash. "I brought this for you to snack on, Master Morrison. Most of the food is still boxed up, but we're working on it, and I'll bring in a proper lunch as soon as I can!"

He smiled up at her, glad for her interruption. "This is more than enough, really," he said, "Just keep everyone working on unpacking."

And she nodded low to him and backed away to leave. Jack went tense beside Vincent, uncomfortable with the idea of being alone with him again, but to his relief, his butler slipped in just as she went out.

"Please," Vincent said, "Go try every key you have on the door to the tower. We'd like to get it unlocked so we can take a look around up there."

"Certainly, Sir," the man said, and Jack watched, miserable, as the man's back retreated into the hall. 

For the first tense moments, they ate together without speaking. They could hear the house coming to life all around them as Jack's servants unpacked Jack's belongings. Sometimes one would come in and ask for Jack's direction on a piece of furniture, but Jack's answer was always the same - leave everything in the house in place. They would send back all of the unnecessary items he had brought from home. He didn't know why he did it, but something about swapping out the furniture here felt wrong. These antiques felt like the organs, the manor itself a gigantic body of stone instead of flesh. But things could not stay uncomfortable between them for very long. The fruit spreads they were smearing on their slices of bread reminded Vincent of a time when they had nearly got caught fooling around in his family's orchard, and soon they were both laughing and reminiscing about their past, and Jack had to admit - it was nice to just let go of his grudges and enjoy Vincent's company like he once had. 

After their lunch, they walked arm-in-arm around the grounds. There was no sign of where Jack's property ended and the moors began, and the wind was howling fiercely, so they kept close to the buildings. Outside of the kitchen was a garden where vegetables and herbs had once been grown, although it was now dense with weeds and knotted brown vines. "It's a shame it's been left to die," Vincent mused, "But I think your gardener can salvage the land." Jack merely smiled and squatted down, peeling back layers of overgrown vegetation to show Vincent where carrots still grew in the dark cold earth. Vincent laughed. "I forgot I was talking to Farmer Jack," he said, and the expression on his face was so tender that Jack had to turn away and act focused on brushing the dirt from his hands onto his pants. 

There was a glasshouse, too. The panes were all fogged up, so Jack and Vincent could not see inside, but it was obvious a lot of healthy greenery flourished within. Jack could foresee himself spending a lot of time in there over the coming months. The scents of earth and growth and fertilizer was familiar to him, and in this dreary, foreign world it seemed like his only connection to his home. He pulled at the door, expecting to be hit with a wave of hot air and that fecund aroma, but it would not budge in its frame. The door was locked. He swore under his breath, and Vincent put a hand on his shoulder. "You saw how many keys there are," he said, "Just ask your butler to get the door opened for you."

"Yes. Of course." Jack couldn't hide his disappointment and frustration, though. A locked stairway in the house. A locked glasshouse in the grounds. He couldn't shake the feeling that this house was trying to hide things from him. The fact that Vincent seemed so unbothered by it all only further frustrated him. 

He circled the building with his face to the glass, his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to see inside through the humidity. He could make out vague, blurry shapes, but the glasshouse would not give away its secrets. Still, when the fading light caught flashes of green within, he felt hope that maybe, just maybe, the flora inside had flourished even without the caring hands of a gardener to guide and protect them. His imagination went wild; tulips with gently parting yellow lips, the delicately drooping petals of volkamenia in shades of lavender and lilac, forget me nots the same brilliant blue of his own eyes, stalks of pure white catchfly with their faces open to the sun - 

"Jack! Come here! You must see this!"

Lost in his thoughts as he tried to study the glasshouse, Jack had failed to notice that Vincent had wandered off without him. He was far off across the grass, standing at the peak of a swell of earth that rose so gently that Jack hadn't noticed it was a proper hill until he reached Vincent's side, panting for breath and overlooking a vast expanse of land. The moors here, stretching to the horizon, were not empty. He could see miles of wild heather, their violet shades reflected in the darkening sky. A forest grew in the distance, too, although Jack could not tell if it was natural or had been planted. Nestled in the trees, only just visible in the shadows, was another home, smaller than his own but built in a similar ornate, Gothic style. The stone was dark, nearly black, although it was too far away to make out more details than that. 

"Isn't the view spectacular?" Vincent asked.

"It is," Jack agreed, "I didn't realize there was another estate out here." He thought it would take at most maybe an hour to reach the place, making it his closest neighbor by far. He had to admit, it eased some of his anxieties, knowing that he wasn't totally isolated in a country so unfamiliar to him. 

Vincent looked thoughtful. "I think it's called Blackwatch Manor, something like that. It was built around the same time as your place, sort of like sister estates."

"Does anyone live out there?" Jack asked him.

"Listen, Jack," he said, getting suddenly very serious, "There are a lot of strange rumors in town about Overwatch Manor, and that Blackwatch, too. Please don't pay them any attention. It's just because no one has lived here for so long. You know how people are."

"What kind of rumors?" 

Vincent sighed, "Oh, you know. The typical stuff. Ghosts. Monsters. The supernatural. People just love to talk."

But it made sense to Jack. A pair of Gothic mansions, isolated out on the moors. One abandoned completely furnished, the other hidden beneath a canopy of trees...

Jack and Vincent returned to the house together and supervised the unpacking of all of Jack's belongings. Out of all of the rooms on the second floor, Jack had chosen the cheeriest one. The walls were dressed in a pale green wallpaper, and all of the furniture was in a warm, dark walnut. There was an arrangement of chairs around a small fireplace, above which hung a painting of hound dogs on a hunt which, out of all of the artwork and sculptures in the manor, seemed the least creepy. Most of the other rooms had portraits of dead men and women that seemed to watch him from their gilded frames. This particular room was the first one at the top of the stairs, and if he stepped out onto the landing, he would immediately be able to see out over the railing and down into the salon on the first floor. It was also the farthest from the locked door to the tower, which seemed ominous at the other end of the hall, and he was glad to put some space between himself and it. They sat before the empty, cold fireplace drinking tea and giving instructions to the servants - hang that coat there, arrange the toiletries on the vanity, set the clocks, fold the towels.

It was all strange to Jack. His family was wealthy - their farm was one of the most successful ones back home - but they had only a handful of people employed to do work outside, and his mother had one single maid to wait on her in the home. But Vincent had assured him that this was not how things were done here. He needed a butler, maids, kitchen staff, a gardener, a driver, stablehands. Jack was overwhelmed by how busy the place was with people moving things around and settling themselves in. Vincent seemed completely used to it, though. He lived in an estate of a similar size and with more servants even than Jack had, but it still surprised him that this man before him drinking from fine China and barking orders at domestic servants was once the teenage boy he had rolled around in the mud with, climbed trees with, had his first kiss with...

"I'm tired," Jack announced suddenly.

It had grown late while they had been chatting. Though they had not eaten the evening meal, and he was hungry, he still felt uncomfortable around Vincent and even more uncomfortable in this house. A night's sleep, if he could manage one, would do him some good. 

Vincent made some protests - it was still early - but Jack wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts and feelings. This day had been draining, overwhelming. So the servants left, likely to gather and socialize in their own part of the house, and Vincent headed to take the room next door. He stopped Jack, though, gripping him by the forearm and looking up at him with desperate, pleading eyes. 

"Jack," he said softly, "Let me sleep beside you tonight."

The words struck Jack like a blow. For a moment he stood there just staring, shocked. Then he gripped Vincent's hands in his own and pulled him in close, pressing a kiss to the other man's brow. "Good night, Vincent," he said, and he gave the man a gentle push out into the hallway, closing the door on that handsome face. 

He leaned back against the door, the ache in his heart so sharp and terrible that he could barely breathe, barely think.

* * *

Jack's uneasiness in the manor was such that he could not fall very deeply into sleep. Instead, his slumber was restless; the wind howling across the moor and rattling the window panes made him jerk awake multiple times with a hammering heart. He feared that even if he slept, his dreams would be visions of Vincent, both fantasy and nightmare. In fact, he would have welcomed something more traditionally terrifying. Perhaps the statues would come to life, or a monster would crawl from beneath the bed, or a beast would rise from the heather and grasses. Anything but Vincent. Anything but _that._

So Jack was awake, or at least awake enough, to hear the creaking of his bedroom door as it swung open. 

He opened his eyes, sure that he would find Vincent hovering in the doorway, but his room was empty, the door only cracked. He felt uneasy then, but reminded himself that it was an old house, that the wind was terrible outside, that the door likely had not caught when he had closed it. But he felt so certain he had shut it quite forcefully in Vincent's face. There was a house full of servants, though, he reminded himself. Something he was not yet used to. Perhaps one of them had slipped into his room, mistaking it for an empty one. It was understandable that they weren't familiar with the layout of the place just yet. There were so many rooms. 

Jack pulled the blankets down off his legs and rose from the bed. Each floorboard squealed under his footsteps as he crossed to the door. He opened it further, and he peered out into the dark hallway. It was empty, although he supposed he had given someone enough time to slip out of sight. Still, his breathing hitched, his heart pounded. 

"Vincent?"

There came no answer. And the door next to his own, Vincent's, was still shut neatly, no lights coming from the cracks under the door. He sighed, a little relieved and certain he had merely freaked himself out, but then he saw it.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the eerie silhouettes of statues in the darkness, the door to the tower stood opened wide.

He told himself it was nothing. He had instructed his butler to find the skeleton key, and perhaps the man had. But there was an aura of unease emanating from that door and the staircase beyond, and Jack was a man who listened to his gut. Not bothering to be quiet, he moved down the hall and approached the tower. He had an unshakable feeling that he would confront something on those dark spiraling stairs, or perhaps in the room at the top, so he steeled himself and began to climb, keeping a hand against the cool stone wall to keep himself steady. It was completely black at first, he could barely see the steps ahead of him, but the higher he climbed, the more obvious it became that somewhere up above was a light source, the stairs becoming more and more visible until finally they were completely illuminated by candlelight which poured from the room at the top of the stairs. There was a door, but it stood wide opened, welcoming him, and within the tower he could see a small room, perfectly round. Inside, the space was dominated by a bed covered in plush multicolored pillows and piles of blankets, but there was also an eclectic collection of treasures - tables scattered with old tomes and delicate porcelain vases, pieces of taxidermy ranging from the head and shoulders of a giant proud stag to an array of birds of many species and colors, and most notably was a life-sized statue of a half-goat half-man with a cruel face and horrible curling horns. It seemed like a random selection of pieces from the rest of the manor had been brought up here, perhaps for storage. What made Jack the most uneasy was that nothing up here was dusty. By the warm, dancing flames, he could tell this room looked lived in. There even sat a bowl of fresh cranberries on one table, and Jack knew he had not brought any from back home. 

"Hello? Who's here?" he asked of the empty room. More than fear, he felt anger. How dare some stranger break into his home? 

With a harsh gust of wind, the door slammed shut behind him, and the candles were put out in the blink of an eye. Jack jumped and turned for the door, but he saw something horrible that froze him in his spot. A shadow was forming before him. It began as faint as mist, but it began to grow in size and opacity, until it looked solid enough to touch and as big as Jack himself. He backed away from it, stepping only deeper into the strange tower room, and the shadow moved forward with him. In the pale moonlight from the tower's windows, Jack could see features forming from the blackness - arms, eyes, a terrible smile. He turned to grab a candlestick behind him to use as a weapon, but lightning-fast a black hand swept out and caught him by the wrist. The grip was icy. There was no life to those clawed, monstrous fingers. 

" _Overwatch Manor is mine_ ," said a voice like the rattle of a dying man's last breath, " _If you remain here, then you also belong to me_."

The figure had moved up against him, and Jack could feel a terrible cold from that body as a pair of arms encircled him. He thrashed to break free, but the strength of this being was greater than his own. He felt the sudden heat of a wet, living mouth against his neck and he screamed out, hoping Vincent or the servants might hear him, but knowing even as he did that they could do nothing. If this creature could overpower him, they would be like ants to it. A tongue traced the square angle of his jaw, and he bucked like an animal to get this thing off him, but then he was being kissed. It was fierce and fiery and suffocating, each of his screams being devoured by the passion of that foreign mouth. He jerked and bit, until his mouth filled with the copper taste of blood, and he felt it on his lips and chin. A hand had moved between his legs, was kneading him through the fabric of his nightclothes, and to his horror his flesh was responding to that touch. His traitorous body even arched against the man-shaped void, as though he wanted this, as though this was pleasure. 

"No..." he sobbed, the sound swallowed by the sweep of those lips. 

The other hand released his wrist and moved up to his throat. Jack felt himself being backed further and further into the room, as though he were not even in control of his own legs. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he was pushed back into a soft, welcoming nest of blankets and pillows. He stared up, wide-eyed and frightened, at the ghostly shape above him, but as it kissed him, that face was too close for Jack to make out any features. The grip on his throat tightened, and he felt his Adam's apple struggle against this monster's palm, even as his legs parted for the attention of that second demonic hand. His strength and consciousness were fading slowly, like the descent into sleep, and he raised his hands to try and pry the fingers from his neck, but all they did was squeeze, until everything went black...

Jack woke screaming. 

It was morning, although the light from the windows was still bleak and foggy. He was in his room with the cheerful green wallpaper, his legs tangled in the sweat-drenched sheets. As he lay gasping for breath and trying to make sense of his surroundings, the door joining his room to Vincent's was flung open, and the other man was at Jack's side in an instant. 

"It was only a dream," he cooed, holding Jack to his chest, "Just a dream. You're safe. You're okay." 

For once, Jack did not pull away from Vincent. He lay with his head against the other man's shoulder, trying to shake the residual terror from his nightmare. His heart was racing in his chest, the adrenaline still pulsing through him. 

"Jack..." Vincent gasped, "What happened in here?"

For a second, Jack thought that Vincent was asking about his dream. But then he realized that Vincent's eyes were wide, and he was staring at the room around them with a terrified expression. Jack followed Vincent's gaze and saw blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on the blankets, blood on the floor, blood on his pillow. "What the hell?" Jack whispered. He raised his hands, expecting to find them stained with dried blood, but they were clean. He even lifted the sheets, to check his feet and legs, but there was no place on his body he could find any wounds. He ran a hand through his hair, checking his scalp, and something fell into his lap. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, and only then did the two men realize what they were looking at. In Jack's fingers was a velvety petal of a red tulip. There were hundreds of petals scattered around the bed and floor. These were not splatters of blood, but the decapitated blooms of flowers. Not only red tulips, either, but full round blossoms of crimson chrysanthemums and the slender fingers of coral honeysuckle. He hadn't noticed at first, in his terror, but their smell was cloying and heady.

"Oh my God, Jack! Your neck..."

Jack put a hand to his throat, but felt nothing there, although the flesh was tender. He climbed from the bed and stumbled across the floor, kicking up petals with each step, as he crossed to his vanity. In the mirror there, he saw that his throat was bruised green and purple in splotches the size and shape of a man's fingers and palm. 

The spirit from last night! Could it have been real?

"Do you think perhaps you were sleep walking?" Vincent asked.

"That doesn't explain the flowers," Jack snapped back at him. 

"They must have come from the glasshouse," Vincent said, his expression sour at having been spoken to that way, "You likely found a way in while you were sleepwalking. It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

Jack began to throw on his clothes, and Vincent hovered around him, asking questions and offering help, but Jack shrugged him away each time. Once he had dressed, he was out in the hall, storming towards the door at the end of the corridor. It sat closed as ever, looking innocent in the morning light that seeped into the hall. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The door was locked just as firmly as the day before. He jerked with all his strength, but it wouldn't even budge in the frame. 

"What are you doing?" Vincent asked.

But Jack didn't know how to answer the question. He couldn't just tell Vincent about the creature he had seen last night. "Let's try the glasshouse," he said. 

"Jack, please," Vincent said, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him to a stop, "You're exhausted from your travels. You had a bad sleepwalking incident. Try to calm down."

"Have you ever known me to sleepwalk?" Jack asked. 

"Well, Jack, it's been a few years..." Vincent did not finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. Many years since they'd slept together. Of course. "You'll see, Jack," he continued, squeezing Jack's shoulder affectionately, "Once we've got this place cleaned up and aired out, once you've settled in, you'll see this for what it is. It's a nightmare. That's all."


	2. Chapter 2

Springfield Hall was the opposite of Overwatch Manor in nearly every way. It was located in the suburbs, not too far from the city's heart, and there were neighboring properties on each side. The land was well lit by the sun, the yard lush and green, and the gardens well kept and fecund with the new growths of spring flora. The home itself was built in a neo-classical Italian style, with lovely columns and a welcoming porch. All of it was in clean white stone, shaded by tall English Oaks and surrounded by pretty flowerbeds. 

The sight of it, as Vincent's carriage moved up the driveway, made Jack frown. He had been feeling more himself with every mile put between him and Overwatch Manor. The two men had been chatting comfortably, Jack regaling with stories of their shared past while Vincent spoke endlessly of their plans for the Season. But now the men fell silent, a heaviness weighing down upon them. Vincent would no longer even meet Jack's gaze. 

Once they had pulled to a stop at the end of the drive, the front doors opened, and a young blonde woman, barely more than a girl, rushed out to meet them, holding her skirts up as she took the front steps two at a time. "Oh, Jack!" she cried, throwing her arms around his shoulders as he stepped out of the carriage, "It's so wonderful to see you!" 

Jack pecked her on the cheek, and he said softly, "Good to see you, too, Cousin."

She cupped his face in both hands, studying him as though committing every feature to memory. "How are my dear Aunt and Uncle?"

"They're both doing well," he said.

"And I hope that my husband didn't bore you on the drive! He won't stop talking about the opera!" she giggled, and she released Jack to turn her attention to Vincent, who clasped her hands in his own and gave her a warm kiss on the forehead.

Jack knew, then, that he had been a fool to come here at all.

When his mother and father had purchased Overwatch Manor and had made arrangements - largely without his consent - for him to spend the social season as a guest of his cousin, Jack had thought that seeing her with Vincent would no longer bother him. It had been years. Vincent was an old flame, and it would be nice to leave the farm for a few months and see the world. Maybe he, like Vincent, would find a woman to marry that would stop the rumors about him. What an idiot he had been, to think any of that. The sight of Vincent with his cousin brought back all of those horrible memories. All of the grief. Vincent had been so precious to him, and he had been so precious to Vincent once, too. But his family had tried to play matchmaker every time that Vincent had come around, and Vincent had assured Jack that he was merely acting for their benefit the whole time. _"It's all so that I can stay close to you."_

When had this stopped being a game? 

After the marriage, it had been Vincent who had bought Springfield Hall, Vincent who had moved away. _"I love you Jack. But I can't break her heart. She's innocent in this. She deserves me to try."_

He smiled, but there was a deep ache in his chest. "I don't feel well," he said.

"Oh, poor Jack," his cousin sighed, "I get nauseous in that bumpy thing, too. Let's get you some food and rest." She looped her arm through his and guided him up the stairs.

Springfield Hall had fewer rooms than Overwatch Manor, but the rooms were much larger, with high ceilings and grand windows that allowed in plenty of light. Jack was led to a bedroom which, despite its nearly black furniture and busy, dizzying dark wallpaper, had a much less oppressive atmosphere than anywhere at Overwatch. The bed was a monstrous thing with a tall canopy in shades of muted blues and golds. His cousin offered to have a maid bring up food or heat up some water for a bath, but Jack declined. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, and he needed some sleep after his restless night at Overwatch. And so Jack brooded away the rest of the day and the next.

He did sleep a dreamless, comfortable sleep for much of the time, but it was not the only thing he did. He sat in bed writing letters to his cousin and letters to Vincent that he knew he would never have the courage to send, letters that he burned in the fireplace upon their completion before beginning the process again. He found a Holy Bible in the drawer of his bedside table, and he read several books until his head was spinning. _Thou shalt not covet. Thou shalt not covet. Thou shalt not covet._ He refused to come down for any reason, although his cousin came up to visit often to check on him, and despite it all, he was glad for her presence. She was cheerful and loving towards him, and she told him stories and kept his mind from the dark places it kept trying to go. Before long, she had enough of it. His second afternoon at the estate, she came in like a storm, declaring "Oh, Jack, Dear, you _must_ come out with us tonight. It will make you feel better to leave the house."

Jack watched as she set down a tray on the table before him. He stared at the cup of tea, the slices of buttered bread, and the cold meat leftover from last night's supper, then his eyes went back to her as she swept around the room, drawing back the curtains and letting in the warm afternoon sunlight.

All of yesterday, Vincent had begged him to come down, especially for the evening meal, when the house had been full of influential friends that he had planned to introduce Jack to, but Jack had apologized and made excuses. Tonight, though, there were tickets to attend the opera, and Jack's cousin refused to take no for an answer. He had never been to an opera house before, had never even imagined what the opera might be like, but apparently it was a big deal during the Season. 

Before this trip had been proposed by his parents, Jack had never heard about the social season. He had been vaguely aware that during spring and summer, Vincent and his cousin were constantly attending events and socializing with important people, but he had never known it was such a significant thing in everyone's lives here. Boat and horse races, tennis matches, balls, dinner parties - from March to September, the social elite were constantly on the go, and it was all in an attempt to make connections with others more important than you. He knew that Vincent had this fantasy that he would meet some aristocratic woman who lived nearby, and then the pair of them could remain inseparable. But Jack had no interest in marrying a woman. There was no way he could explain that to Vincent or to his family, though. 

"I really think I just need to return to Overwatch and rest for a few days," Jack said. 

"You can go after the opera! We will drive you there ourselves. This is a show you cannot miss, Jack. The first show of the Season, a handful of true celebrity voices - it's what everyone will be talking about for weeks."

So, reluctantly, Jack allowed her to send her servants to warm water for the wash stand, and he scrubbed himself clean with a bar of soap scented of almond flower. Then he dressed in a navy suit with a blue and gold brocade silk waistcoat and studied himself in the mirror. He felt like a fool. This wasn't how he dressed or how he lived. He longed to be back at Overwatch Manor, lounging in the library with his new collection of books. Or perhaps the greenhouse and tower had been unlocked by now. He wanted nothing more than to explore their secrets. As he stood there worrying over his reflection, he saw over his shoulder as the door opened. Vincent peeked his head into the room, and in the glass, their eyes locked. Vincent beamed.

"I'm glad to see you up and dressed, Jack. I was worried about you." When Jack didn't respond, he glided across the room and looped his arm into Jack's, "Come on. The carriage is waiting. You'll love the ride into town. The land is even prettier than back at home!"

And the ride was lovely, although Jack didn't know that he would call it prettier than home. It was all rolling, verdant hills and quaint country lanes winding this way and that. Unlike the moors, which had been lonely and wild, the suburbs were handsome home after handsome home, and they passed many other carriages along the way. Jack might have enjoyed it all, the fields of sheep and cattle, the vibrant yellow blooms of lesser celandine growing along the road, if he was not sweltering in his evening coat and uncomfortable with his cousin's voluminous skirts taking up much of the carriage. She cooled herself and her husband with her hand-fan and chattered on about the opera, the singers they would hear tonight, the social elite who would be in attendance. Jack let her words go in one ear and out the other, staring out the window and longing for the expanse of heather and the hiss of chilly wind through the grasses. 

Once the carriage was rattling over the paved city roads, Jack's mood worsened further. When he looked out the windows, all he saw were filthy alleys and walls of brick all around him. He felt trapped. All of the strangers who went about their day, dodging the horses and carriages, were like a colony of swarming ants. He had never stepped foot in a city of this size. Back home, he rode into town to pick up supplies for the farm or to meet buyers of their crops, but the town was small and very opened, with gaps in the buildings wide enough that you could see past them to the prairie beyond. This was different. He could not see the land, and from all the smog and smoke belching from chimneys, he could hardly see the sky either. The worst part was the opera house itself. Though grand, with its tall columns and white stone, the building seemed to be the hub of so much of the activity. Carriages lined the streets surrounding it. Men and women in their formal fashion milled about on the sidewalks and socialized in clusters in front of and on the stairs to the doors. It was all black suits and a rainbow of gowns, a dazzling display of fabrics and patterns and ruffles. 

When it was their turn to step out of the carriage, Jack heard his cousin's name called, and they were immediately drawn into one of the groups on the stairs. The women kissed each other's cheeks and Jack was introduced to everyone. He wasn't sure what was socially normal - was he to shake hands? That's what he would do back home. But this place seemed a world away from the farm he grew up on, so he did nothing. If this was strange, no one reacted to it. Only Vincent, of course, seemed to notice Jack's discomfort, so he put a hand on Jack's shoulder and led him up and into the opulent lobby, which was so filled and busy with people that Jack could hardly admire the architecture and decor. They wove between the crowd, Vincent occasionally stopping to greet a face he recognized, and Jack was pushed into a room. There was perhaps a dozen men in this room, no women in sight, and nearly everyone was puffing away on pipes or cigarettes. The room filled with a veil of tobacco smoke that stung Jack's eyes and burned his lungs. He wasn't a smoker himself, and he was completely taken aback when Vincent joined a table of smokers, introduced Jack to each of them, and lit up a cigarette himself. 

"It's a trendy thing here," Vincent assured him, "Would you like one?"

"No thank you," Jack said, and he stared down at the opera bill in his hands, getting lost in the art printed on the page, while the men around him smoked and talked about people he didn't know and things he didn't understand. 

"Your first time?" a man at his side asked. He was a tall, well-built man with a stunning dark complexion and very severe face. Even leaned back into his chair, completely relaxed, his expression was nearly a scowl. It seemed unfair, for a man so unpleasant-looking to also be so strikingly handsome. Jack was aware of the way those deep brown eyes swept up and down to take in every detail of him. Something about the boldness of his staring flustered Jack so much that he couldn't think of an intelligent way to respond. "Gabriel Reyes," the man introduced himself, his mouth finally shifting into a smile, and he stretched out a hand, which Jack shook. His palm was hot and dry, his grip strong, and Jack felt reluctant to let go.

"I've just moved in to Overwatch Manor," Jack said, for lack of anything better to say.

"Oh, really?" Gabriel said, his smile widening, "I saw the commotion. I've been wondering who my new neighbor is."

"Neighbor?" Jack asked. 

"Yes. Blackwatch Manor, my home, is the nearest to yours by many miles. It can be eerie all alone out there on the moors. Feel free to stop by for anything." Gabriel finally released Jack's hand to settle back into his chair. "You know, Mister Morrison -"

"Jack. Please."

"You know, _Jack_ ," Gabriel began again, "That there are rumors about Overwatch. That it's haunted. You haven't experienced anything out of the ordinary there, have you?"

Jack tried to keep his expression blank, tried not to show any fear as memories of the previous night rushed back to him, but before he could respond, Vincent chimed in, "Oh, Mister Reyes, don't try to terrorize him! There's no such things as ghosts."

"Of course there are," Gabriel said.

"Jack," Vincent sighed, "Don't listen to him. Mister Reyes terrorizes _everyone_."

Their conversation was interrupted by the dimming of the lights, signifying that everyone should move to their seats, and Vincent dropped his cigarette into an ash tray and ushered Jack out of the room in a hurry. It occurred to Jack that Vincent _knew_ Gabriel Reyes, had almost certainly known he lived at Blackwatch, too, and yet had kept this information from him. "Why didn't you tell me who lived at Blackwatch?" Jack asked, as they crossed the lobby towards the steps to reach their box seats.

"Because Mister Reyes is, quite frankly, an asshole. He'd love to torture someone like you, a country boy, so... so..."

"Naive?"

"Jack, I would never call you naive," Vincent snapped.

"But that's the word you were looking for, isn't it? You think I can't handle someone like him myself," Jack muttered at Vincent's back, as he led the way upstairs.

But Vincent was saved from having to answer that accusation, because they had reached the top of the stairs, and his wife was waiting for them on the landing. She was accompanied by an entire gaggle of friends who greeted Vincent enthusiastically, and welcomed Jack with similar warmth before they all moved to their seats. The view up here was stunning. The audience and the three tiers of boxes were arranged in an oval, all facing the stage. The stage was magnificent, its red velvet curtains pulled back upon a set made to resemble some kind of city plaza. There were hundreds of people here, their hushed whispers collecting into a roar of noise, but the voices were cut off as the first notes rose from the orchestra pit. Jack felt a stirring of excitement in his stomach as he took his place beside Vincent. This would be one of the most incredible experiences of his life, he was sure. His mother and father would be ecstatic to hear the details about this later! And for the first time since arriving, it really occurred to Jack that he would be living a life for the next few months unlike what anyone back at home could even imagine. In fact, he probably couldn't even imagine himself how new and wonderful his daily life would soon be! So he was able to forget about his argument with Vincent, forget about the mysteries of Overwatch, and focus on the performers as they began to emerge on stage.

* * *

For the next hour or so, Jack's breath was taken away. The costumes were absurd in their elegance and ornateness, everything oversized and glittery and gilded. The expertise of the orchestra transported him to other times and places with every whine of violin, every bellow of horn, every rumble of drum. While he had never cared to listen to music like this before, the singers held out notes that broke his arms out in gooseflesh despite the nearly unbearable heat, and even though he couldn't make out a word of what was being sung, he could translate the emotion in each scene. His heart swelled, then broke, then mended again, and he was on the edge of his seat the entire time. 

Everything might have gone perfectly if he hadn't, at one point, glanced over to ask Vincent if he knew the name of the composer. 

Vincent's back was to Jack entirely, his body turned instead towards his wife. He clasped both of her hands in his lap, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a gesture so full of tenderness that it brought Jack immediately back to his bitter, heartbroken mood. He wanted to be happy for them. He _was_ happy for them. But he was very depressed for himself. 

_Thou shalt not covet._

Jack jumped to his feet, and all of the eyes in their box turned to him. "Excuse me," he said, stepping over knees and dresses. 

He needed time. Jack was trying so very hard not to be openly jealous, as he had known his whole life that he and Vincent could not have ended up that way together, but it was proving impossible. And Vincent was trying so very hard to make Jack feel included, which made it worse. He wanted Vincent to be cold towards him, so that they could hate each other, but there was still so much love there. 

As he took the first stair down, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Jack spun around, and Vincent caught his face in his hands. "Jack," he whispered, "what's wrong? Don't leave..."

"I'm still not feeling well, Vince. I told you I didn't think I could come out tonight," Jack lied. 

"Let me come home with you," Vincent said, "I'll pay for a cab."

Jack shook his head and backed down another few steps, putting more space between them. "No, please, enjoy your night. I'll send a servant for you if I need absolutely anything."

For a long moment they stood there watching each other, listening to the aria coming through the walls. 

"I love you, Jack," Vincent said.

"I know," Jack replied, taking Vincent's hands in his own, pulling them away from his face, "I love you, too." He kissed the fingertips before releasing them and backed down another couple of stairs. Then he turned away from Vincent and rushed down the staircase. In the lobby, he saw it was raining hard outside. The streets were slick with water and mostly empty as people tried to stay dry. The music had been loud enough to bury the sound of the downpour, but out here in the quieter lobby, he heard the assault of precipitation upon the building. Moaning in displeasure, he decided to linger a while and hope the rain slowed down, so that he could hail a cab. He slipped back into the smoking room once more, although it was empty now, as everyone had moved to watch the show. 

Well, nearly empty. 

Gabriel Reyes was slumped in the couch, his head thrown back onto the pillows and his eyes closed. Even at rest, he looked unhappy. Jack took this moment to study, breathless, the fullness of the man's lips, the sharpness of his cheek bones. His hair was slicked so carefully with pomade, the undersides shaved close to his head. He had thick, angry-looking eyebrows and long, dark lashes. Jack wondered if perhaps he should not bother this gentleman, but as he backed away, those piercing eyes opened, and one hand rose, a finger curling for Jack to come in. 

"Couldn't stand the screeching either?" he asked.

Jack grinned. "Something like that." He stepped into the room, being drawn in by that delicious face. When Gabriel's hand dropped, patting the couch beside him, Jack took the seat gladly. The man wore a fragrant cologne, perhaps of apple? Jack breathed in deeply, finding the scent intoxicating. It was strong enough to block out the lingering stench of tobacco smoke that had previously permeated this room. 

"Do you believe in ghosts, Jack?" Gabriel asked him.

Jack remembered the voice in his ear, the mouth on his own, and he shuddered. "I'm not sure," he answered honestly, "But why would Overwatch Manor be haunted? Did something happen there?"

Gabriel smirked. "Oh, yes. Something terrible. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Absolutely."

"There are people who say a mad scientist lived there," Gabriel said, draping an arm around Jack's shoulders and further enveloping him in the scent of him, "She did cruel experiments on animals, and when that didn't satisfy her any longer, she moved up to experimenting on humans. The whole city accused her of witchcraft. There was no magic in what she did, only science, but that hardly matters, does it? Regardless, the ways she tortured others was horrific. She was hanged, and she deserved it."

"So she haunts Overwatch?" Jack asked. It didn't feel right. The energy in that home was not feminine. 

"Oh, no," Gabriel answered, "Not her. She went straight to Hell, according to the legend. But her experiments are a different story. The restless souls of those she tortured are said to still roam the halls. And you're the first owner since that all happened. Everyone will be on the edge of their seats to hear from you whether or not the ghost stories are real."

Tortured souls... Jack shuddered. He wasn't sure whether or not he believed the story - after all, he had only been there one night, and there had been little proof that his experience hadn't been a dream - but either way, it was unsettling. He wanted to ask about the kinds of experiments she had done, but at the same time, he felt that it was better not to know. 

"You'll tell me if anything strange happens, Jack? Won't you?"

"You'll be the first to know," Jack agreed. 

They were seated so close to one another that the moment was almost intimate. Jack felt suddenly hot, and new that his face must be flushed. The sharp notes of the opera and the dull rumble of the rain faded away, and all he could hear was his own heartbeat. 

"Let me take you home, Jack," said Gabriel, in a voice hardly more than a whisper, "It is on my way, after all."

"No," Jack answered, the word bursting out faster and louder than he had intended. At Gabriel's suggestion, he had seen sudden flashes of that future - Hours and hours alone with Gabriel, driving late into the night with their thighs perhaps touching on the seat. Could he bare all that time listening to Gabriel's warm, rich voice or looking into those dark, broody eyes? No. He knew himself well enough to see the danger in that. The last thing he needed, while sent here to find a wife, was to develop feelings for his mysterious, seductive neighbor. "I'm sorry. I must wait for my friend."

Gabriel nodded and rose to his feet. As he straightened his suit, Jack couldn't help but notice the thickness of his thighs and the way he filled his pants out so deliciously. Jack felt a wave of misery at this. 

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel," he said, although his voice sounded distant to his own ears. He extended a hand for Gabriel to shake, but when Gabriel took it, he instead bent at the waist, bringing his lips down to kiss Jack's knuckles. His lips lingered there just slightly too long, and Jack felt his face burn. Not only his face, but he felt a flare of heat between his legs that nearly made him moan in anguish. 

"The pleasure was all mine," Gabriel said, standing tall over Jack, and looking down at him with a wicked smile for just a moment before slipping out the door and back into the lobby. 

* * *

Jack napped in order to escape his anxieties, the rolling of the carriage lulling him into a deep slumber. For a long time, Jack had lingered there in the smoking room, trying to collect himself. He had listened to the warbling voices of the opera singers through the walls, waiting for the passing seconds and minutes to put some distance between himself and Mr. Reyes. The strange man had shaken him up and had made him question and doubt everything, but he had no idea exactly why. No, he knew why. It was the uprising of unexpected desires. But why _now?_ Why _him?_ The comforting void of Jack's sleep began to shift, colors and shapes returning gradually like a lens coming in to focus. He was inside the carriage still, but it was going too fast, rocking and shuddering out of control. He pushed open a window and leaned out, only to find that the cabbie had fallen asleep, and his horses were tearing across the landscape at a dangerous speed. Jack tried to shout to wake the man, but he found he could only whisper. 

With a shout, he sat upright. The carriage was moving forward at an entirely normal pace, the road smooth and steady beneath the wheels. He was wet with perspiration in his hot, stuffy opera clothes. He brushed a hand across his brow, sweeping away sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes. What time was it? How long had he been asleep? Loosening his collar, he slid open the carriage's window and felt a wave of relief as the crisp breeze cooled his sticky face. A misty rain sprayed his cheeks, making his eyes water at the coldness, which felt like pricks of needles. It was a good feeling, though. It woke him up. And he saw they were far from the lights of the city now. He must have been asleep for hours.

Still exhilarated by his nightmare, Jack settled back into his chair and began unbuttoning his coat. He tossed it on the seat across from him, then began fighting with his waistcoat. With each layer he removed, he felt himself relaxing. He was homesick for his jeans, and the thought of anyone in this damned city strolling around in jeans made him laugh softly to himself. 

The carriage jerked to a halt, and Jack, in the process of half-undressing, was nearly thrown to the floor. He caught the wall of the carriage to steady himself. Outside, the cab driver was shouting and swearing. Jack stuck his head out the open window and saw that they had very nearly crashed with another carriage driving in the opposing direction. The two sets of horses were face-to-face with each other, and Jack could see the opposite set was frothing from exhaustion. The coachmen yelled back and forth and began trying to steer around each other on the narrow road. Jack narrowed his eyes at the other driver, prepared to scold the man for driving his horses too hard, but then he recognized the face. It was his personal driver. The man his parents had hired on his behalf for his season here. And the carriage itself, as well as the one he could just barely make out behind it, he now saw, was packed with his staff from Overwatch. 

Jack threw open the door. "What is going on here?" he asked.

The driver's anger melted away when he saw Jack's familiar face. "Master Morrison," he said, "Don't go back there."

" _What_?"

"Please, Sir. For your own good. Don't return to Overwatch Manor. The place is cursed. Possessed. You aren't safe there." The man was frantic, and the other men and women of his staff were leaning out the windows and murmuring their agreements. 

"Calm down," Jack said, "Please. Calm down and explain what happened."

His driver glanced across the night, at the fog rising into the darkness from the hills, at the milky shine of the crescent moon. He sighed. 

"Well?" Jack urged him.

"There's something evil in that house. A spirit or a demon, don't know which," the man said, "We've been doing our jobs, Sir, just as you asked of us. During the day, it is fine. A little quiet, a little creepy, but you was there, Sir, you know what I mean."

"Just an old, empty house," Jack said. 

"Yes, Sir. Yes. But at night..." the driver trailed off.

A hysterical housekeeper threw open the carriage door and stepped out into the middle of the road. Her face, in the moonlight, looked haunted, and she shouted, "The shadows there are alive!" 

"Yes, Sir," the driver agreed, "Soon as the sun starts to set. We saw shapes in the shadows. Like a man at the corner of our eyes. Out on the grounds, in the hallways, behind us on the stairs. We was all on edge."

"And tonight! The doors!" the housekeeper shrieked. Jack saw, with horror, there were tears now in her eyes. 

"Yes, yes," the driver said, "We was all in our beds, Master Morrison. And you know Mr. Holmes, your butler, Sir, is the only one with a full set of keys. There's suddenly a sound in the middle of the night. Woke us all up. We're all in our quarters, strainin' to listen, till Miss Mary realizes what it is."

The housekeeper looked at Jack with blazing eyes. "It was the piano, Sir. I knew it was the piano. Someone was playin' Chopin." She pronounced this as _Chop-in._ "Nocturne in E-Flat Major. Me da' used to play for weddings at the church, so I knew without a doubt."

Jack scowled at this. It sounded less like a ghost and more like a home intruder. "Did anyone investigate this? Are you sure there wasn't someone else in the house?"

"We're getting to that, Master Morrison," the driver said, "After she recognized it, us men got together and went to investigate. We thought just as you did, Sir. That someone had got into the place, that someone didn't know you had moved in. Or maybe they did know, and they was trying to scare us. But leaving our quarters, it was horrible, Sir. Every single door in the house, _every single one_ , was wide open. Even the front door, which only Mr. Holmes had the keys to."

"Doesn't that just point towards a break-in?" Jack asked. He was a frustrated with their nonsense. Ghosts couldn't open doors, nor could they play piano. Maybe, just maybe, he was willing to accept that a ghost of the house had visited him in his dream the night he spent there, but that was all spirits were capable of. 

The housekeeper could tell that she was losing his interest, and her tears began to flow more freely. "You've got to believe us, Sir! Something is wrong with that place, and all of us could feel it! I don't even think it's a ghost, Sir! It's a demon! It's the devil!"

"I'm sorry you got so frightened, Miss," Jack said, "But some opened doors and a piano song hardly points towards the devil."

"We know that, Sir," his driver said, "We know that, and we checked. But there wasn't anyone in that house. When we got to the piano room, there wasn't anyone there. But we could all feel eyes on us, Sir. Something's there. Something that isn't normal. Something that isn't alive like you and me, Sir."

Jack took a deep breath, trying to swallow back his rising irritation. "This is absurd. Take me back there at once. It's likely the whole place has been robbed of every valuable."

He turned to grab his coat and waistcoat from the inside of the cab, but the man stopped him. His voice had lost all respect and kindness and had become mean instead. "We're not going back there."

"Excuse me?" Jack spluttered, almost too surprised to get the words out. 

"Nothing you say, nothing you pay us, could convince us to go back there. And we advise you to do the same, out of respect for you, Sir, since we believe you to be a good Christian man."

Jack stared up at the driver, his emotions unable to settle between anger and disbelief. "It was just the piano. Just some opened doors. No one was hurt! Nothing happened!"

"You wasn't there. You didn't feel what we feel. There's something in the shadows of that house, and whatever it is didn't want any of us there."

The two men glared at each other, cold rain dripping down their pale faces. Jack saw in his expression that there was nothing more to be said. He clenched his teeth. "I expect you to return my carriages and horses to me. They aren't yours to take."

"I'll return them personally in the morning, if you will agree to pay us our wages for the days we were in your employ."

Jack could have gone to the police. It would have been in his right to pay them not a penny. However, he was not that kind of person. Even now, his anger was fading to pity. These people were pathetic. He didn't need this many staff anyway. When Vincent returned to him, Vincent could help him hire a couple more, just a couple. And maybe a new groundskeeper and stable hand, too. He supposed he needed those. He nodded and turned to the cab, combing a hand through his drenched hair. "Keep on," he said, throwing open the carriage door.

"Are you certain?" the cabbie asked. 

Jack nodded. He had never been more certain of anything. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to apologize for the time it took me to get this next chapter uploaded. Some things happened in January that really just upheaved my life, and I'm still recovering from the shock of a lot of it. But the comments and support from all of you has really kept me going. I love you guys. Thanks so much for every single kind word you've left, even if I haven't got a chance to respond to them yet. You're the best.

That final stretch of the ride back to Overwatch was torture for Jack. He sat on the edge of his seat, tapping his fingers on his thighs and adjusting his collar and cuffs. The cabby went as fast as he could push his horses, but it wasn’t fast enough. All that Jack could think of was the intruder dragging out all of his lovely old furniture, pilfering the priceless books from the library, walking out with all of the one-of-a-kind art pieces… he was miserable. It wasn’t that he was particularly attached yet to any of the items in the house, but the house seemed something alive to him; taking so much as a single flower vase from the building would be a violation of the place.

As they approached Overwatch, the sight of it with its door wide open was horrible. Jack threw money at the cab driver, barely even counting the bills, and rushed up the steps and into the dark, empty manor. A chill had settled into the home from the cool, rainy night. The only sounds were his footsteps echoing through the halls and the rhythm of his own rapid breathing. “Hello? Who's there? Come out now!” he shouted, but the response was a lifeless silence.

He lit a candle and carried it from room to room, seeking any sign of the intruder. As his former employees had attested, every door in the house was wide open. He searched the servant quarters, the closets, behind curtains, under beds, and found absolutely nothing. Not so much as a mouse or a roach was uncovered. He was relieved to find that nothing seemed to have been stolen from the manor, at least nothing noteworthy. Perhaps a neighbor had simply been playing a prank on the new inhabitants, knowing the property’s haunted history? But, Jack remembered, the only neighbor anywhere nearby was Gabriel Reyes. Would Reyes do something like this? But he had been at the opera with Jack that night.

There was a single door that remained infuriatingly closed - the door at the end of the upstairs hall, the one which led to the mysterious room inside the tower, where Jack had dreamed about. He set his candlestick down on a shelf in the corridor behind him, where its meager flames illuminated a patch just wide enough to clear the shadows from the doorway. Jack pounded a fist upon the heavy wood and jiggled the handle. “Open this door! I’m not afraid of you!” he shouted, “All you’ve done is piss me off!”

He braced his shoulder against the door and threw his weight into it, but the construction was so solid. It barely even trembled in its frame under his force. “I don’t believe in ghosts!” he roared, “Come out and face me like a man!” And he shoved against the door again and again, but all he accomplished was a bruised and throbbing arm.

After a few minutes and many bellowed curses, Jack slumped, exhausted, with his back to the door. Only then did the idea occur to him: the axe in the garden behind the kitchen, the one used for cutting up firewood. If he brought the axe up here, it would certainly be enough to break through to the staircase within. He had a terrible idea that if the house knew his thoughts, though, it would try anything to stop him. There did seem to be a feeling, he realized, of being watched - a prickling on his spine, the hairs on his necks standing upright as though he was freezing cold. Perhaps he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he still wouldn’t risk it. He had to act casual.

Jack swallowed a mouthful of warm spit and rose to shaky, wobbly legs. His shoulder throbbed from its assault on the door. It was tempting just to lay down on the carpet and let sleep overtake him. The late hour of the night, nearly dawn, seemed to finally be affecting him. His limbs felt weak, his eyelids heavy. He grabbed the candlestick in his fist and walked down to the first floor, then down to the kitchen. He had a terrible headache by the time he reached that dark room, which smelled of earthy vegetables. There was a pump which drew up from the well. He went to it first, splashing his sweaty face with the icy cold water that spilled from the tap. It woke him up a little. Then, dripping wet, he threw open the door into the kitchen garden and saw the axe lying there, exactly as he knew it would be, against the pile of firewood. No sooner had the door opened than a gust of damp wind put his candle out. He let the useless thing fall to the floor, where he felt hot wax splatter his shoes and pants. Then he crossed the yard with long, confident strides and took the axe’s handle with both hands. The moist wood felt good in his palms.

As soon as he straightened up, hoisting the axe up over his shoulder, a flickering light caught his eye. He glanced across the grounds towards the source. There seemed to be a lit candle inside the glasshouse. In its dancing yellow light, he could make out a shape – the dark shadow of a tall man, watching him from the opened glasshouse door.

Jack shuddered.

His instinct was to tear across the yard and confront the stranger, but he had a horrible feeling that this was some trap to lure him away from the door to the tower. He stared hard at the black figure, trying to make a decision, but before his eyes the shadow seemed to lose solidity. Within a second, maybe two, there was nothing but the candlelight. "I'm not afraid of you!" he announced. He took a step backwards, into something that had moved into his path.

_"You should be."_

Jack gave a shout and lifted the axe above his head, but a pair of very strong hands wrestled the handle out of his grip. Weaponless, Jack lunged. For just a second, his arms were wrapped around a real, solid man. He was able to connect one good punch. Then the man in his arms simply faded away. First, the figure became a hazy black fog, and then it was gone, as if no man had ever been there.

Heaving for breath, his skin broken out in gooseflesh, Jack felt blindly around for the axe in the grass, but the thing was gone. As gone as his attacker. _I’m losing my mind,_ he thought. But why was that easier for him to believe than the possibility of something paranormal? Perhaps there was a ghost in Overwatch Manor. Perhaps he had been stupid to remain so skeptical despite all of the evidence.

He sat in the wet grass, pushing his hair from his brow. “What do you want?” he asked of the starless, cloudy night.

The voice that responded was so close he could feel breath against his neck. _“You.”_

He was pushed down onto his back, the dew seeping into his coat. A figure moved into his field of vision, a great black shape wearing a bone-white terrible mask. Jack gasped as the thing settled upon him. It had the weight of a living man.

“What do you want of me?” Jack asked, trying to scoot backwards away from it through the mud, but the thing caught his ankles in a pair of powerful hands and pulled him back beneath its weight. He could do nothing but lay there as the thing peeled his clothes away from his body like one might remove the skin off the edible flesh of a fruit. As each layer of fabric was removed, he understood, and the understanding made his blood run ice-cold in his veins. But for some reason, his body would not respond to the fear and do anything to stop the ghost. No. There was some twisted, terrible part of him that remembered the passion and heat delivered by that mouth, and he longed for it.

“Let me see your face,” he begged of the thing as he lay shivering and naked beneath it in the cold night.

_“You shall see nothing,”_ that dreadful voice replied, and some sort of fabric – his own shirt? - was wrapped around his head.

There was a moment where Jack was certain he would die, where the fabric was around his nose and mouth so tightly that he could not take in a single breath. But then the fabric was pulled up, and he took a gasping breath of air, and a hot, wet tongue slipped into his open mouth. Jack moaned and reached up to touch the face of the spirit, but the monster took his wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head. He was helpless. And he _liked_ it. He liked the way his heart hammered in his ribcage. He liked the way his body jerked and shuddered away from the touches. He liked the way, even as the terror drowned out every thought in his brain, his cock rose and pressed eagerly against the creature’s leg.

“You can have me,” Jack said to the thing, as if he even had the power to deny it, “But tell me the truth.”

The ghost laughed a low, growling, horrible laugh.

“Please,” Jack begged, but then he felt the beast enter him, and he lost his voice. 

The monster was powerful. Every thrust of his hips pushed Jack deeper into the earth. He felt the muddy wetness soaking him, the blades of grass prickling his flesh. On him, in him, there was nothing ghostly about this other man. His body felt so hot and real and alive. Jack sobbed and gasped loudly for him, so that his pleasure would be known. It was so far from the nervous and polite sex that he had once had with Vincent, so far from anything he had ever even fantasized about, and yet he was drooling and trembling, half-crazed with rapture. The fear made every sensation exquisite.

Between his parted, quivering thighs the ghost was rough and violent, but there was a wonderful gentility to the way the thing kissed him. That mouth swept over his neck and shoulders, leaving wet patches of sensitive, bruising flesh. Then it would return to his own panting mouth, and Jack felt the passion of every press of that tongue like a fire in his heart. He wished his hands to be freed, so that he could grip the body above him, cup those cheeks, claw at the beast’s back. But the ghost never released his wrists, and Jack was only able to lay there being used.

He was being pushed closer and closer to the edge of climax. His body writhed in the grass, the smell of the damp earth all around him. He didn’t want the pleasure to end, because then he knew the abuse of his body would turn to pain, but he was helpless to stop it. Every muscle in him clenched, his back arching up from the mud. Every burst of cum that spilled from him was hot and fierce enough to be agony. The thing above him laughed, nearly breathless from the exertions of thrusting. Jack fell, limp, to the ground, and mercifully the monster finished soon after. He could feel the thing filling him, so much that it trickled down his thighs. And as terrified and filthy and used as he felt, he lay beneath the monster, practically glowing from the bliss of it all.

“Please,” he whimpered, and his voice sounded too small, nothing like his own, “At least tell me what I can call you?”

He felt the ghost pulling out and away from him, and the loss of that heat made him feel sad and alone. He raised a leg to try and press the monster closer. He heard the thing laugh at his attempt. “ _You may call me the Reaper,”_ he said.

Jack’s wrists were released. He reached up to pull his shirt off his face, but by the time the fabric had been removed, nothing was left of the ghost. He had turned back into shadow, and in the dark moonless night, Jack could see no sign of him. There were streaks in the mud where the weight of him between Jack's legs had disturbed the grass, but there were no footsteps marking his retreat. In fact, Jack might almost think the whole thing had been his imagination, if not for the very real wetness between his legs, seeping from inside of him. "Reaper?" he said, a weak plea for the ghost to return to him. But if the thing heard him at all, there was no sign.

For a long time, he lay there, too weak and spent to get up and hoping that the ghost might yet heed his call. Then he gathered his shed clothing and, clutching the bundle of fabric to his naked hips, he wandered back into the house. Without his candle to see by, the place was impossible to navigate. He clung to the counters and walls as he moved back out of the servants quarters. He didn't bother to dress, just collapsed into a sofa in the library. As he sprawled there, it occurred to him that the whole manor felt still and empty for the first time all night. His ghost was really gone somehow, wasn't he? The shadows no longer seemed to breathe around him. “Reaper?” he called out, much louder this time, pleadingly, and the syllables still hung on the stale air as Jack closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

Vincent sensed there was something wrong at Overwatch Manor the moment that he stepped out of his carriage. He told his wife to stay with the driver and the locksmith they had hired, and then he rushed up the steps alone. He wasn't sure why he thought something bad had happened. There was just a feeling in his gut, and a sense of death and stillness about the entire property. Had Jack never come back here after last night? And where were the servants? It was obvious the place was completely abandoned when he pounded his fist upon the door and never got an answer, not even after waiting half a minute. He knocked again.

"Vincent..." his wife said behind him. He turned to look at her, found her face frightfully pale. 

"Darling, I told you to wait with the locksmith," he said, taking her arm. 

"I have a terrible feeling about our dear Jack," she said, confirming his fears.

So Vincent opened the door himself and called out into the home. His wife clung to him, and she echoed his call. Still no answer. There was no one, not a soul, in Overwatch Manor. He told her to wait by the door and headed up the stairs, hoping Jack might simply be in bed still asleep. He didn't know which of the many rooms Jack would have used, so he checked them all. Not one showed any signs of having been slept in. Many of them were still thickly coated in dust from ceiling to rug. "Jack?" he tried calling again, but then he heard his wife give a shriek from the first floor. Vincent rushed back down, taking the stairs three at a time.

She came hurrying, red-faced, out of the library. "Vince!" she sobbed, "He's indecent!"

"What?" Vincent asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He strode into the library and found Jack scrambling into a pair of trousers. He was entirely undressed, and Vincent could see a rainbow of bruising across his throat and shoulders. That was hardly the most alarming thing about the scene, though. The couch, and the floor around it, was carpeted in flower petals. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, in a violent array of colors. Vincent bent to scoop up a handful and let them fall from his fingers. Four-leaved clovers, delicate pink heads of Syrian mallow, brittle vines of Swallow-wort, ivory blossoms of tuberose, and small fruit in dense clusters that he recognized as black mulberries. Some of them grew naturally around Overwatch Manor's grounds, but the others were astonishing to see in bloom, especially at this time of year. "Jack, what's going on here?" he demanded.

Jack had no idea himself. He had been asleep, still nude, on the sofa when his cousin had burst in on him and woken him with her shriek. This was the first time he had seen the flowers, and he was as shocked and confused as Vincent. 

"Where are your servants?"

As Jack finished dressing in his clothes from last night, he recalled to Vincent the story of how he had run into his staff fleeing the manor last night, and their tales of a haunting. He left out any detail about his run-in with the Reaper. He knew that Vincent would believe him if he told him every detail, but he didn't want to tell Vincent everything. He didn't want his friend to worry over him, or to try and stop him from seeing the Reaper ever again. Jack didn't want that at all. In fact, he wanted to see the Reaper again quite badly. But he didn't think the Reaper would visit in the day time, and certainly not with Vincent around.

By the time he had finished with the story, Vincent looked disgusted. "I knew your mother and father shouldn't have tried to hire staff without meeting them first," he grumbled, "We offered to help them scout for some good help. I should have put my foot down. Don't worry, Jack. We'll have you a new group of more reliable servants in before the week's end. I'll see to their interviewing myself."

"Thanks," Jack said. It saved him the effort of having to do it himself. 

"But, Jack, what happened down here? Why were you sleeping on the couch? In the nude? With all those horrific bruises? And the flowers again..." Vincent huffed, "You were sleepwalking, weren't you?"

No. Jack had not been sleepwalking. He remembered very clearly the events of the previous night. Looking around, he felt confident that these flowers were a gift somehow from the Reaper himself. He knelt down in them, gathering handfuls and bringing them to his face. The scent was lovely, less cloying than the selection from his first night. He wondered if the black mulberries could be eaten. They smelled juicy and ripe and fresh. "I suppose I was," he lied.

Vincent groaned. "It was that Gabriel Reyes, wasn't it?"

Jack was shocked to hear that name on Vincent's tongue. He looked up at his friend with narrowed eyes. "What?"

"The things he told you at the opera! All lies. That man is absurd," Vincent growled, "I'm going to have him apologize tonight and set you straight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. We have invitations to a dinner at Dr. De Kuiper's," Vincent said.

"Doctor Who?" Jack asked. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged around the city again. He realized that was the reason he had been sent here in the first place, but still! There was so much going on that he had to wrap his head around!

"Dr. De Kuiper," Vincent repeated, "He's a brilliant scientist from - oh, I don't know, the Netherlands or something? But he has a home in the city for the social season. We belong to the same club, you see? So he's invited me to a dinner at his home. And you simply have to come, Jack! Anyway, Mister Reyes will be there, and I'm going to make sure that he tells you he's sorry for scaring you and assures you that there's nothing wrong with this place at all. Clearly all the rumors of the paranormal are having some kind of effect on your mind."

Jack was trying to think of a way to excuse himself from the dinner, when his cousin's voice rang out through the house, "Oh, Jack! Vincent, darling! Come here and see this!"

They found her upstairs, at the end of the corridor, with the locksmith, who had managed to open the door to the tower. He had an entire keyring of lockpicks which he had expertly used to coerce the door opened. He began to tell Jack his plans to use the lock to create a new key, but Jack shoved past him and raced up the steps. He knew what he would find there. It was no surprise to see the room exactly as he had dreamed it - the bed in the center, with its tall piles of assorted moth-eaten pillows; the old books and knick-knacks and pieces of artwork scattered on every table and shelf; the stuffed birds, mounted stag's head, and that horrifying goat's head and horns attached to the statue of some kind of devil-man. Jack approached the thing, running his fingers over the coarse goat fur and staring into those dead, rectangular glass eyes. On a desk sat a bowl of fresh black mulberries, the same sort he had been covered in while sleeping on the couch. Beside the bowl was a quill, propped up in a small jar of ink, and a piece of parchment. It was a letter, he saw. Addressed simply - _Jack._

Jack picked up the parchment, his eyes scanning the fine handwriting, the ink thick and smooth. Before he could read so much as a single line of it, he heard the footsteps of the others coming up the circling tower stairs behind him. He shoved the letter into his shirt pocket and turned to face them just as they stepped into the room.

"Isn't it lovely, Jack?" his cousin sighed, "Who would have imagined that this was locked away up here all this time?"

"See, Jack?" Vincent said, "No ghosts. Nothing up here but a spare bedroom. Don't you feel silly?"

Jack glared at him, but he wasn't about to argue with a man in front of his wife. 

"No ghosts," she agreed, "But that horrid thing really must go."

She was referring to the goat-man. Jack wasn't going to argue with that. The thing was horrible to look at. He might have considered making this tower room if own, if not for the hideous demonic figure looming beside the bed. It wasn't the only thing in the room that filled him with horror. There were bones of small animals all over the place, as well as jars of disgusting specimens suspended in strange liquids. Then Jack saw, propped among the pillows on the bed, a skeletal mask. The very mask the spirit had worn last night. It looked harmless there, almost comical, the features stretched to exaggerated, alien proportions. Jack sat on the bed and touched the thing. It was cold, made of metal. 

"Well, that's one mystery solved," Vincent said, "Let's have the locksmith try the glasshouse next. Perhaps we can figure out what plants are in there." He put a hand on his wife's shoulder and guided her back down the stairs. 

As soon as they had disappeared, Jack pulled the letter from his pocket. 

_Jack,_

_For decades, my spirit has lain dormant and dead with this house, but your presence here has breathed life into me. Without you, I return to nothing. Without you, I cease to exist._

_There are many things I cannot give you, things which you deserve, yet I beg of you - al_ _low me to love and possess you selfishly. You will be my religion. You will never go wanting for love again. You will never again know the ache of heartbreak. Put the past behind you. We are each other's futures._

_Yours,_

_The Reaper_

Jack sat down in the chair at the desk and read the letter over once more. Then he held the paper to his chest and closed his eyes, feeling the rush of his own heartbeat. This seemed the kind of letter a poet or playwright might pen for their beloved, and it felt surreal and wonderful that someone had written such lovely words inspired by him. He knew that he should be concerned; this man courting him was some kind of ghost or undead monster. No, concern didn't even suit this situation. He should be horrified. He should be fleeing the manor for his life. But for so many years, all he had wanted was to be loved. Not the reluctant, half-hearted love he might one day come to feel for whatever woman his family wanted him to marry, but something passionate and volatile and magnificent. He had once thought that he had those feelings for Vincent, but he had ended up badly hurt in the end. Could this Reaper be his soulmate, the one he had spent his romantic fantasies pining for? It was unconventional, and perhaps even dangerous, but for the first time in his life he felt wrapped up in some grand love story. 

He folded the parchment into a small square, which he slipped back into his shirt pocket. He smiled at the feeling of it there, against his chest. Then he opened the desk drawer, finding a stack of papers. He picked one out and laid it flat on the desktop. When he picked up the quill, he felt color rise to his cheeks - was this the same tool his ghost had used to pen that beautiful letter? It must be. He rubbed his fingers up the quill's spine, as though he was lovingly stroking a pet. Then he put the nib to the paper, and began to write. 

_My Reaper,_

_I apologize. I am not as poetic as you are. I lack the words to express how frightening and incredible this has all been for me._

_You know my answer. I only wish you would allow me to see your face. I also wish you would stop hiding from me. I am no longer afraid._

Jack hesitated at the closing of the letter. How should he sign it? He knew what he wanted to put, but it felt so silly and foolish to write it down. How could he have feelings for a spirit that he had only had two far-from-romantic nights with? They had never had a conversation. He had never seen this creature's face, nor did he even know its true name or origins. Despite it all, the quixotic, romantic part of him wanted this all to be real. The trauma from his relationship with Vincent felt far away when the Reaper was courting him. The kisses, the flowers, and now this letter? He felt like the hero in some adventure novel. He smiled and scribbled out the final two words.

_Love,_

_Jack_

With the letter signed, he replaced the quill into the ink and sat back to read over his words. He didn't have the same fancy, looping handwriting of the Reaper, and if this were a letter written to a normal, mortal man, then Jack might stress out about the way his i's were dotted sloppily, or the way the ink had splattered on the L of _Love._ He may have even balled the whole thing up and started from scratch. But there was no point to act so childishly. In fact, he was convinced the Reaper watched him always. It was a strange but welcome comfort. 

"Jack?"

Jack jumped in his seat. At the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, he stuffed his letter into the top drawer of the desk, out of sight just in time for Vincent to pop into the tower room behind him.

"Oh, Jack," the man sighed. He crossed the room and pushed himself up to sit on top of the desk, propping his feet in Jack's lap. "Terrible news. Our man doesn't think that his tools will unlock the glasshouse. But he's going to try to come back tomorrow and make a second attempt." 

"Oh, that's fine," Jack said, "I'll stay here and wait for his return."

Vincent laughed and waved a finger in Jack's face, "No, no, Jack! You won't get out of this dinner so easily."

"That's not what-"

"Don't lie to me! I know you too well, my dear!" Vincent teased him. He leaped off the desk and took Jack's face in his hands, tilting his head up to kiss him on the brow. "I see right through you. You're trying to weasel out of the dinner at Dr. De Kuiper's. But Jack, this is the whole reason your parents sent you here. And I've missed you so much. Just humor me while you're in town? Please? We'll have a few drinks, and it'll be a fantastic time!"

Jack sighed. There was no way that he could explain to Vincent that he was hoping for a night alone with his new paranormal lover. "Fine."

Vincent ruffled Jack's hair. "You never were one for parties."

"And you never were one to take no for an answer," Jack retorted.

Vincent laughed again at this, and Jack couldn't help but to laugh with him. 


	4. Chapter 4

It would be just a simple dinner party. It shouldn't be that bad - a handful of people, perhaps a dozen at most, with good food and a little dancing. Tonight would be nothing like the chaos of the Opera, that was for certain. Perhaps they'd even leave early enough for Jack to return to Overwatch for the night. He wanted to be up in that tower room. He wanted to find his ghost again. 

Except Jack could not have been more wrong. 

Dr. Siebren de Kuiper lived in a grand townhouse on one of the cleanest streets of the city. The building was elegant, with all the architectural beauty of a mansion like Overwatch, except if it had been pinched together quite narrow in order to fit between the other townhouses on either side of it. Jack couldn't imagine living in a home like that with no land, he loved fresh earth and farming too much to give it up entirely, but Vincent assured him that Dr. De Kuiper did not live here year-round; he was from the Netherlands, where supposedly De Kuiper's home would have put even Overwatch to shame. Jack was dismayed to find that the dining table in this townhouse was massive, with room for twenty guests, and each of those seats would be filled tonight. The cramped rooms and halls were so busy that Jack felt they were like a colony of ants in an anthill, and the sweeping multicolored fabric of gowns around his ankles was very reminiscent of the Opera all over again. 

The chaos was not the only similarity between this dinner party and the Opera House - the grandeur and opulence of the event was similar, too. Each place at the table seemed to have a hundred pieces or more set at it, and the elegant white lace tablecloth seemed to be lost between stacks of China and various sizes of silverware. He knew, from eating at Vincent's house, that there were soup spoons and salad forks and butter knives and all of these excessive things, but De Kuiper had twice the amount of silverware set than even Vincent had, and Jack worried that he would have no clue where to even begin. Decorating the table was round glass bowls, one placed between every few seats. In this glass bowls were fragrant bay leaves and vibrant pink blossoms of rose campion. All of this was lit by silver candelabra, as well as a stunning chandelier of crystal which hung overhead. This was the most ostentatious dinner party that Jack had ever been to, and again he was reminded how much of a country man he was, and how out of place he was among these wealthy, aristocratic people. 

He was horrified to learn that, according to social custom, the trio of himself, his cousin, and Vincent would be split up. All married couples were separated and mixed among the other guests to avoid any private or exclusive conversations. Vincent assured him this was very typical, but Jack had never seen anything like it in his life. There was an attempt made to pair every man up with a woman beside him whom he did not know, but De Kuiper was a bachelor, and most of the guests there that night were likewise. The few wives in attendance were made to sit with men on each side of them, but even so, the number of males at the table exceeded the females, so Jack found himself at the foot of the table, seated directly beside Gabriel Reyes.

Jack had braced himself to the fact that Gabriel had been invited, thanks to Vincent's outburst, but being sat directly beside him was more than he had planned for. He must have looked Gabriel up and down with the most obvious expression of hesitation on his face, because their host looked almost apologetic. "Mr. Morrison," De Kuiper said, "I hope you don't mind that I've placed you beside a dear friend of mine."

" _No_ ," Jack blurted out, "No. This is perfectly fine."

Vincent had told him, on the carriage ride in to town, that conversation must always be light. No arguments. Nothing too passionate or personal. Jack didn't know if he could speak so casually to Gabriel. There had definitely been some strange spark between them at the Opera that night, and even in this new setting, it weighed heavily upon their end of the table. What were they even to talk about? The other guests seemed to be discussing the weather, gossiping about mutual friends, commenting on the decor. It all felt so fake to him, like performing in a play.

"It's good to see you again," Jack said to him when he couldn't think of anything else, as they were served their first course - vermicelli served in a vegetable broth, with loaves of crusty French bread. 

Gabriel laughed, and to Jack's ears, the sound was nearly as musical as the tinkling of silverware against China. "So polite," he teased him.

Jack watched him spread his napkin across his lap and take up one of the many spoons. He eyeballed the others nearby to make sure that they were doing the same, then, satisfied, he copied Gabriel and began to eat. 

He wanted so desperately to ask Gabriel for every bit of information the man might have about Overwatch, but there was no way to do so discretely without affecting the flow of conversation about the table. There was talk about future plans for the season - an upcoming horse race that everyone seemed excited for and several of the men planned to bet on, a Parisian ballet coming into town at the end of the month, another dinner party to be held at the Lindholms' home in the country. That then shifted all attention to Mrs. Ingrid Lindholm, a woman whom even Jack recognized as an unparalleled beauty, despite that her diminutive and grumpy husband, a Mr. Torbjorn Lindholm, was anything but. Everyone seemed to wonder, how could she possibly handle hosting one of her extravagant events when she was pregnant yet again? 

A second course had been served at that point. Jack was using a delicate, tiny fork to pick the flesh from the shells of oysters and dip the meat into a spicy sauce. He was so engrossed in the delicious food - he'd _never_ eaten oysters before - that he nearly missed Ingrid turning from Vincent to his wife and asking with a playful smile in her thick Swedish accent, "Ven vill you two start a family ov your own?"

De Kuiper groaned from the head of the table and began to complain that wasn't appropriate at all, but Vincent and his wife shared a smile that made him very rapidly lose his appetite. 

"Well, we were waiting for a better time," Vincent said, "But I suppose there's no harm..."

His wife interrupted him, "We're due in August!" 

The dinner table became a circus of congratulations and celebrations. Jack watched it all unfold, feeling his role shift from a performer in this play to an audience member; he felt disconnected from it all. Even as a toast was raised, even as Vincent addressed him directly as Uncle Jack, even as the plates were cleared away and another course brought out, Jack sat through it all without really participating, feeling strangely hollow. 

_Of course_ he was happy for them! They were family! He loved both of them so dearly, and he honestly, genuinely was thrilled that they would soon have a son or daughter of their own. But he supposed this was the final nail in the coffin of his and Vincent's dead relationship. Perhaps a part of him, this whole time, had selfishly hoped that they would somehow work out in the end. He wondered, staring down at his dish of small fishes that looked back up at him forlornly from their dead little eyes, _if I had been born a woman, this would be my baby. My joy._

In his daze, he noticed something unusual happening on the table before him. The shadows of flickering candlelight were shifting, taking shape into something almost solid. He glanced around, but the rest of the guests were still cooing over both his cousin and Mrs. Lindholm. Only Gabriel, beside him, seemed to notice this strange paranormal mist weaving around the glass bowl in front of them; the man's eyes were dark and strange, as though he were in some sort of trance. 

"Gabriel?" Jack whispered.

And with a sharp crack, the bowl shattered, sending shards of glass and bay leaves exploding across the table in every direction. Several of the women shrieked, and the men began to nervously laugh. 

"Is everyone all right?" De Kuiper asked, "It must have been placed too close to the candle flame."

Everyone was all right, thankfully. Especially Jack, who was smiling down at the rose campion in his cupped hands that had, like magic, come to land there. 

The next course of roasted pigeon was delayed so that the glass could be cleared and the table reset. The guests all moved to the salon and adjoining music room, where the excitement over the pregnancy announcement continued. Jack sat alone on a sofa close to Dr. De Kuiper's grand piano, which was the focal point of the room. Jack didn't need to know anything about pianos to recognize it as an astonishing instrument, far more handsome than the piano back at Overwatch. He caressed the velvety petals of his flower with his fingertips and listened hard to De Kuiper pointing out the thing's 97 keys, walnut casing, and satinwood string inlay - it was easier to pretend to be interested in these things than it was to look across the room at Vincent. 

"It follows you, doesn't it?" Gabriel asked. He dropped onto the sofa beside Jack, disturbing him out of his trance. 

"What?" Jack asked.

"It. The ghost," Gabriel said, "It broke that vase. It gave you that flower."

"Oh," Jack said, and he felt his lips turn up in a small smile, "I suppose so."

"I told you," Gabriel said, looking smug, "I've lived in the area for years. I always knew the place was haunted."

Jack turned his body to more directly face him. "It's a man," he said softly, so that they wouldn't be overheard, "Or rather, the ghost of a man. Do you know anything about the previous owners? I want to learn his name. I want to try and communicate with him."

Gabriel laughed, "Communicate? Well, I told you all I know. The owner of the property was a woman. Half-witch, half-scientist. If the ghost is a male, then he must have been one of her experiments. I imagine there will be no records of him."

Jack had feared this much. "Maybe her notes will have names in them? Or... perhaps we could track down a record of missing persons from the time period?"

Gabriel shook his head. "All of the records of her experiments were destroyed, Jack. A mob of angry villagers burned everything into ash. I'd love to help you out, but I only know of a single way that we might find out."

"How?"

"Ask him."

Jack frowned. He had tried that. He had asked the ghost who or what he was, and the ghost's only answer was _Reaper_. Whether he asked again in a note, or obtained one of those ouijia boards that were quite popular at the moment, he _knew_ the Reaper wouldn't tell him his real identity. What was he trying to prevent Jack from finding out? His face fell, and he looked down at the flower that he held, his gift from the ghost, a token to ease his thoughts. He tucked it into his breast pocket, knowing it would wilt there, but confident that it wouldn't be the last flower he received from the spirit. The lump of it pressing against his chest was soothing. 

"He noticed that you were getting upset," Gabriel said, putting a hand on Jack's thigh. 

Jack stared down at that hand, unsure of how to feel about its placement there. "What could I possibly have been getting upset over?" he said, "I wasn't upset."

"You were," Gabriel insisted, "Even I could sense that something had changed your mood. He wanted to end the conversation. He wanted to give you something small to cheer you up. Tell me something, Jack... might it have to do with your cousin-in-law, Vincent?"

Jack narrowed his eyes at Gabriel, his mouth becoming a thin, stern line, "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing, nothing," Gabriel said, giving his thigh a squeeze before returning his hand to his own lap, "I'm just telling you how the ghost is interpreting it all."

Jack asked, his tone quite venomous, "And how would you know what the ghost is thinking?"

"I have a connection, of sorts."

Jack looked Gabriel up and down. He wasn't sure whether he was looking for signs of this connection or signs of Gabriel's lost sanity. "You're saying that you're some kind of medium?" he asked. He'd never gone to a seance or anything himself, but he knew it was something that people did, especially people like his cousin. In photographs, mediums always seemed like peculiar white men and women with far too much imagination and time on their hands, but that was about as far from the handsome, grave, and sarcastic Gabriel Reyes as Jack could fathom. There was definitely something mysterious to him, but Jack had a feeling that had more to do with his undeniable attraction to the man, and less to do with anything spiritual. 

Gabriel laughed at Jack's question and tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa, looking thoughtful. "Yes, sure," he said after a pause, "You could say that."

So my ghost is here right now? You can sense him?"

Again, Gabriel laughed, "Oh, he's here. He's definitely here."

Jack glanced around the room as though he might see the spirit himself. Where could he be? The room was so lively, it seemed unlikely that a ghost might be there. None of the corners or shadows felt particularly haunted, not in the way that Overwatch did whenever Jack was about to have an encounter. 

"You don't seem to be afraid of him at all," Gabriel pointed out, "In fact, it almost looks like you're eager to find him here."

"I'm not afraid," Jack agreed. 

"A lot of evil was committed in the walls of your manor, Jack. Some people even think the devil was at work there," Gabriel warned him in a low, dangerous tone. 

Jack turned back to Gabriel, his expression stony. "This spirit is _not_ evil," he said, "It's trying to communicate with me the only way that it knows how. Sure, I may get startled. I may not understand it. But he is _not_ evil."

The playful, teasing smile that Gabriel had worn suddenly disappeared, his expression becoming soft and thoughtful. 

"Mr. Reyes!" De Kuiper said, sweeping into view. Jack gazed up at the man, who easily must have been seven feet tall, and found him beaming. "Why don't you play us something while we wait?" He waved a hand at the piano at the center of the room, the rich wood of its body so highly polished that they could almost see their reflections in it. 

The other guests all chimed back, "Oh, yes!" and "please!" 

Gabriel's thick brows furrowed, an undeniable pink flush rising to his cheeks, "You play, Doctor. You're the real pianist."

"I'll play after dinner, as I always do," De Kuiper said, "But you have talented hands, too, and you always weasel out of performances when I invite you to my parties!"

Gabriel, looking very unhappy about this turn of events, rose off the sofa and readjusted his dinner jacket. It was hard for Jack to imagine Gabriel playing a piano. Maybe a guitar, but not a piano. As he made his way to the piano bench, another body swept in to take his place on the sofa. Jack pulled his eyes away from his new friend and looked over to find Vincent, who looked shy and uncomfortable. _Rightly so_ , Jack thought bitterly.

"Doctor De Kuiper is an unparalleled pianist," Vincent explained in a whisper, "But Mr. Reyes is very talented, he once played for the local theater."

He blinked back at Vincent, saying nothing, although his expression said it all.

Vincent took both of his hands in his own, holding them to his chest. "Could you still love me, Jack?" he whispered, "Could you find it in your heart to be happy for me?" 

Gabriel made an exaggerated show of cracking his knuckles before settling down on the piano bench. The sharp pops of bone saved Jack from having to respond immediately. His eyes, fierce and blazing, were locked on Jack and Vincent both. Vincent dropped Jack's hands, and Jack tucked them beneath his thighs, where they felt safe from Vincent's unwanted touches. He lowered his eyes for just a second, and when he glanced back up at Gabriel, the man bowed his head in a nod in a way that Jack knew meant he somehow understood _everything_. 

He poked at a few keys, and the sharp, clear notes filled the hall and silenced the dinner guests. Those who were mingling in the salon crowded into the music room, too, lured in by the sound. Then Gabriel took a deep breath, and his hands began to fly.

It started slowly. High, crisp notes as delicate as a sparrow's wings fluttered from his quick fingers, dancing along with their low, moody counterparts played by his other hand. The song was lilting. It made Jack's breath come fast and shallow as he sat upright on the edge of his seat. It began to cycle - Sometimes creeping along at a pace that made Jack anxious, then speeding back up, it rose and fell and pulled him along with it. It was so graceful, with leaps that felt like unfolding wings - no longer those of a sparrow, but a proud eagle this time, all drama and passion. He found his head bobbing as Gabriel's body swayed in the bench while he moved between octaves. Jack watched the sweep of his elbows, the arch of his back, and he was _absolutely breathless._ The song slowed, and Jack waited with clenched, sweaty hands for it to pick back up again. Then there came a moment where Gabriel's fingers flashed in a trill over those keys, pouring out rapid-fire shrill notes, and Jack was hopeful that the song would circle around to the lovely, sanguine tone of the beginning, and maybe just keep going on forever, but it went sluggish and melancholic once again. The notes fell softer and softer until it was, Jack realized with a pang of heartache, _over_. 

The room clapped and Vincent, at his side, whistled, but Jack sat very still, longing for music. He'd never in his life heard a piano played like that, or any musical instrument for that matter. Its absence in the room felt like an agonizing loss. 

"Come back to the dining room, my friends!" De Kuiper announced, "Our next course is served!"

Jack returned with the others to the table, glad to be beside Gabriel again, but the mood had changed. The attention was all on Gabriel now, and Jack couldn't hope to get a single word in to him. Gabriel looked uncomfortable with all eyes on him, but Jack could think of no way to change the subject away from him, and so anything they wanted to say to one another simply had to be swallowed back and kept unsaid. 

More and more courses were paraded before them. Jack picked at everything, but his appetite was mostly numbed, so he sipped at the wines they were served until the alcohol began to pleasantly buzz in his skull. It was quite late, almost midnight, when the dessert course ended. Several of the guests moved back into the music room, where De Kuiper was already playing a piece that even Jack recognized as Beethoven, but many were excusing themselves for the night, including Vincent and his wife. Jack followed them into the front hall, but he hesitated.

"Come on, Jack," Vincent said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "We have quite a long ride home."

He moved to help his wife with her coat. She seemed to sense some tension between the two men, and as soon as she had her coat on she took Jack by the hands and smiled up into his handsome face. "Oh, Jack," she said, "I know this is such a shock. We should have told you first, since you're family! We've already discussed making you the Godfather."

Vincent winced. 

Jack swallowed. "I'd be honored," he said. It wasn't a lie, although it still felt shameful like one.

She kissed him on the cheek and threw opened the front door, letting in a burst of cold night air. Jack found he couldn't get his feet to listen to his brain. He didn't want to leave the house with them. He needed space, or something, he wasn't sure what. "Are you coming?" Vincent asked.

Jack folded his arms around Vincent and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm so happy for you, Vince. You really deserve the world." 

Vincent's dark, pretty eyes filled with tears, and he brushed them away before his wife could notice. "You're my favorite person, Jack Morrison," he said. 

"Jack?"

They pulled apart as though they had been electrocuted. It was Gabriel who had spoken. Gabriel, who had come in from the music room, looking so beautiful with the moonlight on his dark skin. "Jack, would you like to stay? I could give you a ride home. It's on my way, after all."

Vincent's face transformed. He suddenly looked fiercer than Jack had ever seen. "Maybe on the way there, you can apologize for how awful you've been, filling Jack's head with lies that way! Ghosts? Come on, Mr. Reyes. You're taking advantage of how much Jack trusts you!" 

Gabriel's scowl became vicious, and it wiped the courage from Vincent in an instant. "Lying? I assure you, I would never. I've been nothing but open with Jack. I have his best interests at heart."

Jack was astonished. He had directly told Gabriel _nothing_ about him and Vincent, but it really sounded as if he had somehow figured everything out on his own. "He's been very nice to me, Vince," he said.

"Sociopaths always are."

" _Vincent!"_ his wife shrieked, slapping him lightly on the arm, "Oh, Mr. Reyes, please excuse him! He's upset because Jack's whole staff fled in terror, claiming the manor to be haunted! It's a sensitive subject for him."

"Oh, really?" Gabriel asked. He gave a dramatic, theatrical sigh. "It's simply _so hard_ to find good staff nowadays."

"It certainly is," she agreed, "So you must understand, Vincent is so tired of the ghost talk. You'll have to forgive him for saying something so terrible. We both think very highly of you!"

"Of course. No hard feelings." Gabriel extended a hand. For a second too long, Vincent studied it with nothing but open hate burning in his eyes, but then he took it in his own. They shook, Gabriel firm and warm, while Vincent's grip was halfhearted. 

"None whatsoever," Vincent said, although his cool tone betrayed his lie. 

So Vincent and his wife slipped out, and Jack was pulled back into the music room. The number of guests had dwindled to just a handful, and they had taken up chairs and couches to listen to the piano. De Kuiper was playing something fast and frantic, the notes like the racing of feet, but as Jack settled into a seat beside Gabriel, the flurry slowed, the notes becoming bold and dramatic. Jack nodded along to the melody, the wine putting a smile on his face. It amazed him that one instrument and a single pair of hands could create such lovely, lively music. Still, it failed to sweep him away the way that Gabriel's playing had. There was no doubting that De Kuiper was the more accomplished and polished musician, but Gabriel's song had somehow felt so very personal, like he had been playing it for Jack in particular. 

"You should play again," Jack sighed, just loudly enough for only his ears. 

"Invite me to your home," Gabriel said, "We can put that piano of yours to good use."

Jack felt himself flush. "I don't know if my ghost will allow that."

"I am not intimidated by a ghost," Gabriel laughed.

Jack really wasn't sure how wise it was, but he had an idea that if Gabriel was as connected to the spiritual world as he claimed to be, then this could be his best and only chance at learning more about his ghost. Maybe it was that thought, or maybe the alcohol was to blame, but he finally nodded. "Yes. Please come."

Gabriel smiled. "I bet your ghost will like Chopin as much as you do," he said, ruffling Jack's hair. 

Chopin... Jack had heard that name before somewhere. Back at home, there was no talk of pianists or composers, so he had no clue where he might know that name from.

"Is everything okay, Jackie?" Gabriel asked him.

Jack clenched his teeth and stood. The world seemed to be spinning around him. He rushed from the music room, out into the hall, and he began to pace as the song reached a crescendo, each note rattling in his skull. The ghost in his house had played Chopin. That was how he recognized the name. His housekeeper had named the composer and the exact song, and while he couldn't remember the precise numbers off the top of his head, he knew that she had said it was a Nocturne by Chopin. Surely this was a coincidence, right? Chopin was a renowned composer. But somehow Jack couldn't convince himself of that entirely.

"Jack, are you _mad_?" Gabriel growled, storming into the hall, "You've made a scene in there, everyone's sure you're being sick all over the marble floors."

"Have you been breaking into my house?" Jack snarled at him.

"How _dare_ you accuse me of that!"

"You knew I had a piano in my manor! You've just played Chopin, the exact composer who wrote the song that scared away my staff in the middle of the night!" Jack hissed, trying to convey his anger without raising his voice loud enough to be overheard in the next room.

"Yes, because I live nearby. I can hear the piano playing, too," Gabriel said, rolling his eyes, "I didn't take you for a fool, Jack."

Jack clenched his hands into fists, his shoulders heaving. He supposed that did make sense, but something still felt wrong about this whole situation. The ghost had felt so real, like a living, breathing man, and he had covered Jack's eyes throughout the entire encounter. Maybe it was because he looked nightmarish, but Jack also wondered if maybe it was because he wasn't a ghost at all. But there were things that couldn't be rationalized, too, such as the shadows that moved with sentience. Try as he might, he could think of no explanation beyond the paranormal. "I... I'm sorry," he said, and he visibly deflated, embarrassed not only for accusing Gabriel, but also for doubting the existence of his ghost. The next time he spoke to the Reaper, he would apologize. "This is just all so strange for me. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Gabriel took Jack by the shoulders, and he stared hard into Jack's striking blue eyes. "I understand, believe me. This is a lot to wrap one's head around." 

Jack nodded. Standing this close to him, he felt almost dizzy, overwhelmed by how handsome he was. He had an urge to kiss him, then, but it was the Reaper's mouth he thought of, and so he did not. 

"I can prove to you that I have nothing to do with the ghost," Gabriel said, "Let's get you home, and we will have a seance." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I'm so sorry to disappoint you with a much shorter chapter! I really, really wracked my brain over whether to combine this with the next chapter to form one longer chapter, but I decided in editing that they told pretty separate parts of this story, and it made more sense to split them up. I was torn because I always have a strong desire for the chapters to be roughly uniform, especially because I hate for someone to get excited to see this story has been updated and only find a half a chapter, but on the other hand I do like for the chapters to stand alone as parts of a bigger story.

They reached Overwatch Manor so late that it was nearly dawn. There was no sign of the sun just yet, but a faint grayness was stretching up from the horizon into the purple-black sky. It was beautiful out here, Jack thought - something he had not yet thought about the moors before. The vast and empty expanse of land, no trees or homes or buildings, was blanketed by a night so dark that every star blazed overhead. He wanted to nudge Gabriel, who he was certain would know the names of the constellations, but the man was slumped against him, sound asleep. They had napped together for much of the ride, content and warm with their stomachs full of good food and even better wine. Jack loved the weight of Gabriel against him, loved the warm breath in his neck and the crisp and clean smell of his soap or cologne, whatever it was. He was reluctant to even wake the man once they had pulled in front of his house, which looked as menacing and unwelcoming as the mouth of some tremendous cave in the dark. He wished that they could have stayed in that moment in the carriage forever. 

"Should we rest and do this tomorrow?" he asked Gabriel as they clambered out and into the fresh, cold air.

"No, absolutely not," Gabriel said, "We do this now."

Jack didn't know what to expect. He had seen photographs of seances before - weird women in veils who pretended they could call spirits to materialize, who spat up gauze and called it ectoplasm, who cracked their knuckles and called it raps from the unseen next world. They were a step below stage magicians in Jack's book, preying upon those mourning their passed loved ones. He had been invited to these seances before, since they had become such a popular form of entertainment in recent years. People would throw parties just to witness the phenomenon. Of course, he had never gone to those parties. Even when people he respected had bragged of the miracles they had been a part of at these seances, it had been hard for Jack not to laugh in their faces. He simply didn't believe, and his Christian values further prevented him from believing. Although, look at how the tables had turned! Now he was secretly, privately asking a man to hold a seance in his home so that he could speak to his ghostly lover who haunted him. He was ashamed of himself in that moment. He should give up the ghost - literally, not metaphorically. If he gave up chasing the truth about the Reaper, then perhaps he could focus his affections on Gabriel, instead?

_Don't be a fool, Jack. If Vincent wouldn't have you, then there's no reason Gabriel would._

"What do we have to do?" Jack asked, even though he was so exhausted that his brain felt like mush, and his dry eyes ached to be closed for the next eight hours at least. 

So they got started, despite that the grey bleeding over the horizon was becoming pink. They went to the salon, where they pushed back the furniture against the walls, all except the coffee table, which they left in its spot before the fireplace. The activity winded the sleepy Jack, but he was determined to continue if that was what Gabriel wanted to do. "What do we need now?" he asked, "A ouijia board? A crystal ball?"

Gabriel laughed. "Do I look like the type to believe in crystal balls, Jack?"

He put the lit candelabra they had been using to see by in the center of the coffee table, where its flames lit up their faces well enough but cast the rest of the room in eerie, dancing shadows. He pointed for Jack to sit down on the rug at one side of the table, and he dropped down at the opposite side, folding his legs beneath him. Jack copied his example, and he imagined that the house was holding its breath around them, watching with anticipation. Gabriel shed his dinner jacket, tossing it behind him onto the floor. 

"So do we hold hands or close our eyes or something?" Jack asked.

"Whatever you do, don't close your eyes," Gabriel warned him, "Because then you'll continue to doubt me."

Jack nodded and took a moment to examine the situation. It would be hard, if not impossible, for Gabriel to fake any table tipping or rapping while they were seated at so low and close like this. He also knew that there were no wires in place and no trap doors. This was his home after all, his quiet little salon and his dusty antique furniture. Whatever was about to happen would not be a trick. He felt confident that whatever Gabriel did would either work or not work, no gimmicks involved. Would the man wave his hands and begin to chant or something? But instead, Gabriel just went very still. In the dark, his eyes looked black as sin.

"Call him, Jack. He answers to you."

Jack didn't know how to call the Reaper. In fact, he almost spoke up to protest - he couldn't control the spirit at all. He was helpless to it. But Gabriel was looking at him with such expectancy, Jack felt that, at least this portion of the seance, he should be able to handle. So he reached out with his thoughts, extending them through the house, mentally exploring every room and corridor. He felt an urge to close his eyes, but he did not, and instead he stared at the flickering candlelight. _Reaper,_ he thought, _Reaper, please, come to me._ Then, aloud, he whispered, "Reaper?" After a pause, again, a little louder, "Reaper?" He found an absence of terror. His spirit was not here, or if he was, then he was not responding. 

"I don't sense anything," Jack admitted. He felt almost embarrassed. What if the Reaper chose not to show himself? Would Gabriel think him a crazy fool? 

"Well of course not," Gabriel laughed, "It's a ghost. Not a collie. You have to call it by offering it something it will want."

But that was the whole problem, Jack thought. He didn't know what the spirit wanted. If he knew, maybe he could help it, maybe he could set it free from this house. Did it want vengeance? Perhaps it wanted its body to be found and given a proper burial? Those were the kinds of things that the restless dead wanted in stories and poems. 

"You're thinking too much, Jack. You know what it wants."

And Jack _did_ know, although he supposed that he had been avoiding admitting that. He clenched his teeth. He was _mortified_ to say it aloud, but he did: "It wants me."

Gabriel smiled, and that smile sent a chill down Jack's spine. "Then offer yourself, Jack. I know he will come for you."

This was all so unfamiliar to Jack. He didn't know how to offer himself. He had an absurd mental image of sprawling across the table and waiting, like a platter of pork growing cold at a dinner party. 

Gabriel saw the hesitation on Jack's face. He said a single word. "Masturbate."

" _What?"_

"Masturbate," Gabriel repeated, "It wants you, you said. If that's true, then your sexual arousal will draw it to us like a magnet."

"I can't just sit here and do that in front of you," Jack protested. In fact, he was so tired that he wasn't sure he could get it up at all. 

"I will close my eyes," Gabriel said.

But Jack shook his head. "I can't... I _really_ can't..." Back home, touching yourself was so taboo. He was sure that it was here, too. Jack had done it before, of course. Everyone had. But everyone pretended they hadn't; everyone pretended they were too good and Godly to do anything so carnal. 

"Do you want the truth or not?" Gabriel asked, and his tone was so rational that Jack felt childish for being so prude.

So Jack took off his coat, folding it and setting it aside, buying himself as much time as possible, as though, maybe, if he went slowly enough, the spirit would show up on its own. He knew this to be untrue. He knew it was absolute certainty. He felt his cheeks burn, and he was glad for the darkness so that Gabriel could not see how red he had become, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and untucked his shirt from his trousers. Jack glanced across the table at Gabriel. For a breathless moment, they shared eye contact that was searing hot, but then Gabriel shut his eyes. 

Jack didn't know how to proceed. He wasn't in the mood for this. His body was weary and longing to collapse into a bed, and he was far too ashamed to do this in front of Gabriel, whether the man's eyes were closed or not. Gabriel was always so cool, and he was so handsome that it caused an unusual ache in Jack's chest. "I can't do this," he moaned, miserable, "This is stupid."

Gabriel kept his eyes closed. Jack watched the light move across his sharp features, glad for a moment to stare openly. He focused only on Gabriel's broad nose, his defined cheekbones, the unusual scars that marred his otherwise perfect face. Where had they come from? Jack wondered, as he unbuttoned his pants. He rest his hand against the flaccid flesh between his legs, and the touch was enough to make him feel repulsed by himself. He quickly pulled away. 

"I can't," he repeated, for what felt like the thousandth time. 

"Let me help you," Gabriel offered. 

"Wh- _what_?" Jack spat, "No!"

Perhaps, in another scenario, something like this could be erotic. A world with no ghosts and no Overwatch. A world where Jack wouldn't have to feel ashamed about himself and his preferences afterward. But in this here and this now, Jack could never follow through with it. He could feel something in the air changing, though. Shifting in the shadows. Currents of electricity with no source, that caused Jack's skin to break out in gooseflesh. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. 

Gabriel's eyes opened. They were black as oil, black as ink, and the pupils flared up like embers until they were red as blood. The candle went out.

Jack jerked back with a shout, nearly knocking the table over with his legs. Gabriel put both hands on the table and leaned across it, his face split by a smile that was predatory. His form was losing its solidness. He was turning into a black mist that rolled over the table towards Jack. Jack turned and tried to crawl away, but the arms of shadows wrapped around his waist, dragging him back across the carpet. He clawed at the floor, but the pull was too strong, so he flailed his legs instead, desperate to get away. Above him, the shadows were shifting and Gabriel was becoming solid again. He stared up at the man, panting. 

"Don't be afraid, Jack," Gabriel said, "I'm your ghost."

Jack's jaw dropped. He grabbed a fistful of Gabriel's shirt and pulled the man in closer, staring him fiercely in the black and red eyes. "Let Gabriel go! Don't harm him!"

The Reaper laughed through Gabriel's mouth. 

"Please!" Jack shouted, "Please, Reaper! He only came to help me talk to you! Let go of him! You don't have to possess him!"

"Won't it be better?" Reaper asked, "If I have a body you can see and touch and fuck?"

"No!" Jack said, "No! Last time was fine! It was more than fine! You don't need to hurt him to have me!"

Reaper sat back, pulling Jack into his lap - Gabriel's lap. Tendrils of shadow spiraled around them in the dark room. His eyes were hypnotizing. Jack closed his eyes, unwilling to look into them. "I am not hurting this body, Jack. Gabriel is a perfect vessel. Besides, he wants you, too."

"He does?" Jack whispered, and Gabriel's mouth covered his own, kissing him fiercely. Jack put his hands on Gabriel's chest and shoved him away. "No! Reaper!"

One of Gabriel's hands snaked inside of Jack's opened trousers. He grappled with Gabriel's wrists, trying to tear the probing hand away, but the man was stronger. As soon as Gabriel's hand wrapped around his cock, Jack felt a jolt of desire that made his whole body shudder, and it was like he wasn't tired or fearful at all. He suddenly knew he would have no problem getting hard now, but the terrible irony was he no longer wanted that. With a moan of misery, he wrapped his arms around Gabriel's shoulders and clung to him. The Reaper laughed against his ear and began to pull at his flesh. Gabriel's hand was hot and rough, and Jack found himself rising off of Gabriel's lap to push himself forward into the strokes of that hand. 

"Reaper..." he muttered, "Don't hurt him... Let him go..."

He felt himself growing in Gabriel's pumping fist, and it was really too late now, there was nothing he could do to turn off his need. He squeezed his eyes closed even more tightly, burying his sweating face into Gabriel's strong, thick neck. It may have been seconds or hours or lifetimes. They breathed ragged together, the sound filling the room and echoing off the great stained-glass second-floor ceiling overhead. He rocked against Gabriel, increasing the friction, until his toes were curling in his boots and his fingers were digging like talons into Gabriel's muscled back. That hand was heaven. It stole his senses, until all he could see and hear and taste and smell was pleasure, pleasure, pleasure...

"Reaper!" he gasped, "I'm going to cum!"

"Then cum," Reaper said, "Cum for me, that's all I want in this world."

The tension had been building at the base of his cock, forming a great and terrible knot of pressure. At this gruff command in Gabriel's voice, the knot burst unraveled, and Jack's heaving body jerked into Gabriel's fist. He spilled all over their clothes, all over Gabriel's fingers. He was a quivering and convulsing mess until ever last drip was drawn from him, and then Reaper laid his trembling body back on the carpet. There Jack lay with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, feeling as though he might levitate right up to heaven just in his contentedness. He kissed Reaper's face frantically, not minding the sweat his tongue found there. 

But then he felt Gabriel shrink away from him. He listened to the shifting in the darkness, but when Gabriel did not return to his arms, he cracked opened his eyes. He found the room had filled with rosy light as dawn had begun to rise. Gabriel was seated on the couch that had been pushed against the far wall. His face was glistening with sweat and quite pallid. Jack quickly sat up and stuffed himself back into his pants. "Gabriel?" Jack asked, but Gabriel did not answer, just looked at him very intensely. His eyes had returned to their normal rich brown. Jack pulled himself to his unsteady feet.

For a long moment, the two men were silent besides their heavy breathing. Then Gabriel pointed to the coffee table. "What's that?" he asked. 

Jack was glad for the distraction. He looked down and found a letter, neatly folded, had been left beside the candelabra. He wasn't sure that he wanted to read it in front of Gabriel. Maybe he should bring it up to his room? But Gabriel was watching him expectantly, so Jack opened the note and read it to himself. 

_Jack,_

_I wish that I could be honest with you about my identity, but I fear you would hate me to know the truth._

_Just know that in this life and the next, I am_

_Yours,_

_The Reaper_

Jack clenched his teeth and read it aloud for Gabriel, figuring that there was no reason to keep this a secret from him since he had been dragged into this, too. After he read it, the men stared at each other across the room and were quiet. 

"Why?" Jack finally muttered, shoving the paper into his pants pocket as he gathered up his shed clothes. Why had Reaper used Gabriel that way? Why had Reaper refused to tell him the truth? Why would Reaper continue playing with his heart this way? There were so many questions, and instead of finding answers, he was just finding more and more holes in this story. 

"I should go," Gabriel mumbled, running a hand through his hair. 

"It's almost morning. Just stay here. God knows I have enough spare rooms," Jack said. 

Gabriel nodded in agreement. It was now just light enough that they could see their way up the stairs without needing the help of a candle, so they left the candelabra still dripping warm wax on the coffee table. Gabriel took the first room at the top of the stairs, and Jack bid him an awkward goodnight before heading to the door at the end of the hall, his tower room. It was hard work to drag his spent legs up the spiraling staircase. He expected to find flowers waiting for him, as usual, but there were none. He was almost disappointed. He missed the way that they filled the room with lovely smells. He drew the curtains around the windows to keep out the rising sun. Then he collapsed into the pile of pillows and blankets, folding himself up in them until he was enveloped entirely. As tired as he was, sleep would not come. The shame of what had happened made his mind restless.

Some time, perhaps minutes later or hours later, a body slipped into the blankets against his own. It was strange. He hadn't heard footsteps on the stairs, or the creaking of floorboards. 

"Gabe?" Jack murmured.

"It's me," answered a low voice, and Jack realized he didn't know whose it was, but before he could open his eyes, a hand covered his face. He smiled and nuzzled into it, allowing his body to sink into the curves of the man behind him. Finally, his anxious thoughts were silenced, and comforted with the warmth of skin on skin, he was able to slip into a dreamless slumber. 


	6. Chapter 6

Jack was startled awake. At first he was not sure what had drawn him out of his comfortable slumber, but then a booming sound seemed to shake the whole house, and his first incoherent thought was that there was an earthquake. Panicking, he jumped out of bed. He had never experienced an earthquake before, but something told him that the tower room was probably the last place he should be if one were happening. As he stepped for the door, something snapped underfoot. He jumped back, realizing that scattered across the floor were long, dry sprigs of arbor vitae, with tiny white blooms growing out of the green needles. His fear momentarily forgotten, replaced by awe, he bent to gather a handful of the small branches, lifting them to his nose and breathing in their fragrance. The sound came again, loud and low, followed by several more, and Jack realized there was no earthquake at all - someone was pounding on the front door below. 

"I'm coming," he muttered and stumbled across the dark room, trying to avoid the flowers. As he passed the writing table, a folded note caught his eye. Without the time to read it, Jack slipped the note into the pocket of the wrinkled pants he had slept in.

By the time he reached the entryway, Gabriel had beat him downstairs and had opened the door. He looked awful, probably hungover, with dark circles beneath his eyes and dried spit on his chin and his hair a mess of curls. Still, Jack found his handsomeness astonishing. He worried that things might be awkward between them, but Gabriel gave him a smile that melted away his insecurities. 

"He was knocking for ages. I hope you don't mind," he said.

"Not at all. Thank you," Jack said, hoping his cheeks weren't too flushed, and he turned to apologize to his guest. He recognized the man as Vincent's locksmith. The locksmith told Jack that he was here to try the glasshouse again. 

"No need to show me the way, Sir. I'll get straight to work. This'll take me no time!" With toolbox in hand, he headed around the back of the house. 

Free of him, Jack turned, smiling, to Gabriel. "Let me get you some breakfast," Jack offered. 

"Lunch," Gabriel corrected him, "It's close to noon."

Jack was amazed. He'd never slept in so late. "Lunch then," he said.

Even as he spoke, he realized that he didn't know what he might offer Gabriel. He didn't know if the groceries were continuing to be delivered in the absence of his staff, and even if they were, he had never navigated this kitchen before. He was saved from having to make a fool of himself, though, because Gabriel declined, "No, sorry. I'm in a hurry to get back home."

"Oh." Jack was surprised by how disappointed he felt. 

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Gabriel made no movement to leave. Jack brushed some sleep from his eyes and Gabriel rubbed the dried spit from his chin. Then Gabriel reached for his face with both hands and pulled him in close, kissing him on the forehead. "I'll be back soon, Jack," he told him, and then he was gone.

Without Gabriel, Jack felt utterly alone in the manor, and he found himself missing his staff from back home. He'd love to sit down in the library and lose himself in the old books there, while his lunch was made and then served. His stomach gave a pathetic growl, and he felt that the dull ache in his skull might subside after a good meal. 

But first, the letter. 

_Jack,_

_I did not mean to frighten you last night. Can you find it in your heart to still love me and call me yours? And, please, forgive me for not being truthful about my identity._

_You are the best thing to happen to me._

_Do not ever be afraid._

_Yours,_

_The Reaper_

Jack read it over several times, his eyes carefully following each loop and swirl of the spirit's fine penmanship. He brought the page to his face, inhaling the scent of parchment, imagining the Reaper's hands on it. He wasn't sure how to feel. Of course, his heart still belonged to this strange entity. Nothing had ever made him feel so loved and important. He feared that, in the story of Vincent's life, he was merely a side character. Now, for the first time, he felt like the protagonist of his own story. He was meant to be involved in this mystery, perhaps even solve it. There was no denying, though, that he was uncomfortable with the ghost's power over him. He didn't like feeling so weak.

"I forgive you," he said aloud to the empty hall, "I love you." But the place felt hollow, and he was certain that his ghost had not heard him.

With an unhappy sigh, Jack set the letter down on the table in the hall and headed for the kitchen. He wasn't sure what he hoped to find down there. Even if, somehow, the groceries were being delivered, he wouldn't know what to do with them. But the whole place was empty. There was leftover mutton from a meal before the servants had left, but it had gone old now and was covered in a fuzzy mold. Turning his lips up in disgust, he carried it very carefully out back and tossed it into the compost bin. It was a sad sight out here, too. The garden had been tended and planted only a few short days ago. Not so much as a single edible thing had yet sprouted from the earth. 

He managed to find some bread that had gone stale but not yet moldy, so he spread a thick dollop of cherry jam over it to hide the unpleasant texture. There were also many crates of different cheeses, so he took a couple out and cut some slices. With the cheese in one hand and his slice of bread in the other, he stood in the open door to the garden and took in deep breaths of fresh air while he ate. It was enough to take the edge off his hunger, but after last night's extravagant meal, it made him feel like a pauper. Perhaps he'd ask the locksmith for a ride into town. He could dine at a restaurant and then head to Vincent's...

A man's scream cut through his thoughts like a knife. 

Jack dropped his bread and cheese and ran. 

The scream rang out again, and Jack knew where it was coming from. The glasshouse. The locksmith. He took off across the yard, glad that his childhood on the farm had left the soles of his feet tough and even more glad for the thick, spongy grass. The screaming continued, rising in volume. It was a horrible, barely human sound that only stopped long enough for the man to take breaths before starting again. It sliced through the haze of Jack's aching, hungover thoughts and sharpened his senses. He didn't think there were indigenous predators here large enough to harm a grown man, but even if there were, Jack didn't think this was that kind of scream. This was the sound of a man afraid for his mortal soul. It was like the terror of a child. 

The first thing that Jack saw, approaching the glasshouse, was red. Red on the foggy gray glass. Red splashed across the emerald lawn. Jack skidded to a halt, tightening his hands into fists and wishing he had brought a weapon. 

"Morrison!" the locksmith sobbed. 

Jack was relived to see him alive, although his clothes were bloodstained. He grabbed Jack's arms, smearing crimson on his sleeves, and he stared into Jack's cool blue eyes with his own leaking tears. "Are you okay?" Jack asked, "You aren't hurt?"

"No, I'm not bloody okay!" the man shouted, his face twisting into a vicious snarl. He began to sob, and Jack reluctantly took him into his arms, patting the man's back to try and comfort him. "But I'm not hurt... I'm not... I think..."

"Okay, okay," Jack said, "So this blood isn't yours? What happened?"

"There's a body!" the locksmith yelled, pointing. Indeed, against the wall of glass, there was a mass which did resemble some tortured, flayed corpse. "I was workin' on the door and... I saw... Oh God..."

Jack felt a tightening in his chest; suddenly, it was quite hard to breathe and the little food he had eaten churned in his stomach, threatening to come back up. He pushed away from the hysterical man, taking a step closer to the body in the grass, but the locksmith clung to him more tightly, refusing to let him go.

"No! No! No! Don't go closer! It lives inside!" 

" _What?_ " 

"Morrison, there's something evil in there. In the glasshouse," the man said, and Jack found it hard to argue when there was snot running down another grown man's face, "I was... I was just workin' on the lock, y'know... Just workin'... And I thought I could see it in there. Somethin' black and horrible. But... But I couldn't see clearly, 'cause of... y'know, the condensation on the windows? From the heat in there, y'know? Oh God, oh God... And the body! Oh, sweet Jesus! It hit me from behind!"

"Where would a body come from?" Jack asked. As far as he knew, he and the locksmith were alone on the property.

No.

There was one other person.

"Gabriel..." Jack choked out, and he tore free from the locksmith's grip, hurrying in spite of his terror to take a closer look.

How could the Reaper have done this to Gabriel? Jack felt hot tears welling up in his eyes. He would never love the spirit. He would never speak to the spirit again. He would leave Overwatch Manor forever. "You'll never see me again," he whispered out loud, a threat to the ghost that he had no doubt was watching, "As God as my witness, you will never see me again." The content of that letter seemed a horrible mockery of him now. 

He knelt in the grass, his knees sinking into the dirt which had been so saturated with blood that he felt it seep through his pants. He was certain he would throw up, he could feel the bile stinging the back of his throat, but he swallowed it back and reached to turn the mass over. It was skinned completely, all flesh torn from exposed, raw muscle. Even if this was Gabriel, there would be no way to tell. The head had been removed from the neck, and the limbs...

Jack took a deep breath, filling his lungs and settling his stomach. He turned back towards the locksmith, who had collapsed weeping in the grass. "It's okay," he said, and he began to laugh, feeling almost hysterical himself.

"What? How is anything okay?" the man sobbed.

"This isn't the body of a man," Jack explained. He rose to his feet, taking the skinned carcass up by the hind legs and lifting it up to show him. It was heavy and huge, but its shape was unmistakable. 

"A... a deer?" the locksmith gasped.

Jack let the thing drop with a slick sound into the bloody muck. "A big deer," he said.

For a moment the two men stood there in silence, collecting themselves and listening to the wind through the heather. Half-dressed, wet and barefoot, Jack was suddenly cold in the breezy spring afternoon. It was the locksmith who spoke first, "Morrison, I don't care if that's a deer or not. Anythin' capable of doing that to a deer is more than capable of doing the same to you or me. That's a threat if I've ever seen one."

Jack couldn't argue with that. Why would the Reaper be keeping him out of the glasshouse? Clearly all the exotic and out of season flowers he was giving Jack must be coming from there, but what else could he be hiding?

"I need to get in there," Jack said. "More than ever."

"No," the locksmith answered, "I refuse. Absolutely refuse." He picked himself of the ground and began to toss his things back into his toolbox. 

"What? You can't refuse! Vincent already paid you!" Jack said.

"So? I'll march straight up to him and throw his money right back into his face! Although I should just keep it myself! I'll have to pay for a new set of work clothes!" the man spat, and he stormed off, making his way around the building to reach the front, where his cart waited. 

Jack jogged to catch up with him. "Just open the door! Then you can leave! I'll pay you double! Triple!"

"Not all the money in the world could convince me to be here when that door is opened, Morrison. And if you were wise, you'd burn the whole damn place to the ground."

They reached the driveway and the locksmith threw his toolbox up into his cart. "Please!" Jack said, "At least clean yourself up before you go!" He had an idea that while the locksmith busied himself with that, maybe he could take the tools, just for a minute. They couldn't be so hard to figure out, right? And he'd have them returned to the cart before the man even returned.

But the locksmith swung up into his seat and shook his head. "Let me take you into town. To a hotel, or to Vincent's place, wherever you want. You shouldn't be alone here."

Jack did consider the offer. He put his hands on his hips and threw his head back, staring up at the dreary gray sky. The wind tousled his hair, a comforting feeling, as though to say that the locksmith was right and Jack _should_ go. This stuff was getting too out of hand. The Reaper had threatened this man, and Jack knew better than to think he could trust the spirit now. But he was too involved. He couldn't just walk away.

"No," he said, "I'm getting into there with or without you."

The locksmith shook his head and snapped the reigns. The draft horse at the head of his cart, a shabby brown creature, gave a snort and began to pull. Without another word, the locksmith was moving up the length of the driveway. He didn't even glance back over his shoulder. Jack stood there, watching, half-hoping the man would turn around and come back for him. But then the man and his cart disappeared into the hills. 

Even though the man was gone, Jack didn't feel alone. He turned around, facing his grand and terrible house. It seemed to stare back at him in an expectant way, almost mocking him. He approached the building, his stride calm and confident. There was something he needed to find, although he wasn't totally sure what that thing was, only that he would know when he found it. He didn't want the idea concretely in his mind, because he had a terrible feeling that the house might be able to read his thoughts, and then his intentions would be foiled by some horrifying trickery. In the front hall, he stood looking around in a circle. Finding nothing that stuck out to him, he moved deeper into the house, past the grand staircase and into the salon, where his eyes immediately fell upon the iron tools beside the fireplace. He crossed the room and lifted each tool from its stand, finding the small shovel to be the heaviest. He flung this over his shoulder.

A sound rang out through the home, as sharp and sudden as the crack of shattering glass. Jack jumped, feeling an icy chill race down his spine. It wasn't until the second note that Jack recognized what the sound was. The piano. Someone was inside the house, playing the piano in the music room. 

He should go investigate - if it was the Reaper, he wanted to confront him - but Jack was no fool. He saw through this; it was just a distraction. He wrapped his hand around the handle of the little shovel. "Fuck you," he snarled under his breath, and he stormed from the salon and back out through the front doors, marching across the lawn to the glasshouse. He was aware, with each step, of the distance between himself and the music. However, the playing became louder and more frantic to compensate for the distance. There was a frenzy to the melody that spilled out the open doors and across the heather, and Jack almost stopped. Every one of his senses was screaming for him to go to the music room. He ignored these thoughts, clenching his teeth and raising the shovel over his head. 

The first strike bounced off the glass, sending a painful shock through his arm. He slammed the shovel down a second time. He watched the force of the blow send a ripple through the glass, but it did not break. There wasn't even a crack. 

A shadow fell upon him from behind, blocking out the afternoon sun. Jack turned with the shovel raised. A black mist was rising from the open front door and rolling across the lawn like a sinister tsunami, coming straight towards him. 

Jack felt his fondness for the Reaper turn to bitter anger. He wished for nothing more than the Reaper to leave him alone forever. It stunned him how quickly his affection had turned this way. He took several steps back and brought the shovel down again. The sound it made striking the glass was like a burst of lightning. The pointed edge of the shovel tore a chip from the glass wall, but still it stood firm. 

"Damn!" he swore, and he began to strike away at the glass, using the shovel like a pick. It carved shallow gauges, but still the glasshouse refused to grant him entry. 

Tossing the shovel down into the dirt with a cry of frustration, Jack spun on his heels and ran across the lawn, meeting the racing fog head-on. It was harmless, although an energy sparked over his skin like static. As he moved through it, it dissipated, and the piano's song became louder. By the time he was sprinting through the house's gaping halls, the sound was so loud that he could feel each note in his teeth and skull. His feet left prints of drying deer blood across the fine hardwood and magnificent carpets. 

The entire music room seemed to rattle with the force of the spirit's playing. There he was, a black figure seated on the piano bench. As soon as Jack stepped in, the door slammed shut behind him, and the Reaper disappeared.

"Come out!" Jack shouted, "I'm not afraid of you! You're full of shit! You preach your love for me, but all you want to do is terrify me!" 

He felt an ice-cold hand settle on his shoulder. When he twisted around, he found himself face-to-face with the Reaper's bone-white mask. "Jack," the Reaper said, his voice sad and soft, "Can't you trust that I know what's best?"

"I can't trust anything," Jack spat, "You threatened that poor man!"

"I wouldn't have laid a hand on him, Jack. You must believe me. I just needed to send a message as clearly as possible," Reaper tried to assure him, his hand cupping Jack's sweaty cheek.

"What are you hiding from me?" Jack asked, pulling away from the touch.

The Reaper lowered his hand. Despite the fact that his expression was hidden behind that mask, if the creature even had a face at all, something about the tilt of his head and sag of his shoulders spoke of great sorrow. "All spirits are entitled to their secrets," Reaper said, "If you love me, then trust me. When have I lead you wrong?" 

Jack wanted to believe him so badly, but his heart felt betrayed. "You've hurt me, Reaper," he said, "I don't know if I can love you or trust you. You can't expect me to be content with flowers and love letters forever."

"Then what can I do to regain your trust? The only thing I want is for us to be together."

"Are you _kidding_?" Jack snapped at him, "All I ask is for the truth! I want to see your face! I want to go into the glasshouse and know what you're hiding in there!"

The Reaper went quiet as he considered all of this. 

Without giving himself so much as an instant to consider his actions, Jack reached out, snatching the mask from the Reaper's face. The spirit pulled away from him with a howl of rage, and before Jack could glimpse anything, the Reaper had transformed into shadow and was gone, leaving behind nothing but the mask in Jack's grip. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! I just wanted to say that, while I've tried to respond to every comment, I know I've missed a ton of them. I fully intend to catch up after the last chapter is posted, but in the meantime, I hope you can accept a blanket acknowledgement to all of you! Every single comment I've had on this story has meant the absolute world to me. Thank you so much. ; - ; i love you guys

Jack needed a horse.

It had been two days since his staff had fled the manor in his carriage, and he realized, suddenly furious, that they had yet to come back. His carriage was unimportant, but the horses - how _dare_ they steal his horses?

He was ashamed of himself for thinking this, though, when he investigated the stables. Both animals were there, flicking flies away with their tails and watching him with wary eyes. He didn't know much about European breeds, but judging by their handsome bay coat and black points, he guessed they were both Cleveland Bays. Bitter about his situation, Jack had never taken the time to pay them much attention before, but they looked like strong, swift animals and their bay color was stunning. They had been returned at some point while he was out the previous night, or perhaps while he slept in this morning. Whoever had returned them had the foresight to over-feed them, probably realizing Jack wouldn't think to look in on them for some time. Jack was grateful for this. If he hadn't decided he needed one, then he might not have come in for the rest of the day, and maybe not even tomorrow either. There was just so much on his mind. He swore under his breath, cursing himself for being so distracted. Back at home, his own horses were as loyal as dogs to him. He hated himself for forgetting about them.

There were saddles hung up on the wall, but English saddles, of course. To Jack, they looked so small and ridiculous that he refused to use one. Instead, Jack took one of the two out of her stall and fit her with the rest of her tack. Then he swung up on her bareback. She seemed surprised, and he wondered if perhaps she'd never been ridden bareback before. In fact, as a horse used to pull carriages, she may not be a reliable riding horse at all, but it wasn't like he had other options. 

"Come on," he cooed to her, running a palm down her muscular neck, "Good girl. Take me to Blackwatch."

She was as quick as she looked. She crossed the hills of heather in a smooth canter, a flash of red cutting across the grey and green fields. He kept his knees tight around her thick middle, feeling her muscles move between his thighs, his weight rising and falling on her back with the rhythm of her gait. It felt good to be on a horse again. At his farm, he sometimes spent the whole day on horseback. The world made more sense up here, he thought. They were generally pretty good animals who responded well to simple encouragement. If only human beings could be so transparent, then perhaps Jack wouldn't be in this situation at all. 

He tried to close his eyes and enjoy the ride, imagining himself back at home in Indiana, but everything was so different. The wind was chilly, stinging his face, and he wished he'd had the sense to change into different clothing, especially since the sleeves of his shirt were caked brown with dried blood. There was a sogginess about everything, too, like the clouds overhead were always just on the verge of releasing a downpour. An eerie thought occurred to him - this land felt like it was decaying. Home was expanses of golden, healthy cornfields. The hiss of the stalks rubbing together in the breeze, mixed with the deafening buzz of grasshoppers. The smell of fertilizer on his boots. Running his fingers through bags of seed, and the sound they made shifting together beneath his palm. Blazing blue, cloudless skies. Dry dust and sunburns and a good dog barking at his heels. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, even with the horse beneath him, the moors felt nothing like home to him. 

And neither did Overwatch.

Once, Vincent had felt like home to him. Every time Vincent had wandered onto his family's land, bringing him a lunch perhaps, or coming to help with the harvest, it had felt like a homecoming. But that sense of home was gone, now, too. 

His mind drifted back to last night. Laying there in the Reaper's arms, that had felt like home. The way their bodies fit together like pieces of the same puzzle. His heart ached. How things had changed so rapidly. Now he didn't know what to feel where the Reaper was concerned. 

Reaching Blackwatch's long drive, Jack felt a sense of relief wash over him. Gabriel would know what to do. Gabriel could help him. And he wanted to just take comfort in the man's liveliness and the warmth in his dark eyes and bright smile. Perhaps, with time, Gabriel could come to feel like home for him, too? He blushed, childlike, at the idea. 

The manor was strange, though, and his relief became an ugly, uneasy feeling instead. Perhaps it was the trees. No trees grew on the moor. The land was empty and barren. Here, though, the trees cast their shadows upon the grounds, and it made the temperature drop a few degrees. Jack shivered against the mare's shoulders. The main house was built of very dark stone, and the flying buttresses and jagged towers were unwelcoming. The sharp lines of architecture had grown furry with thick patches of moss. All of the flora seemed to be overgrown and wild, including the shapeless hedges that followed the driveway up to the door, and the tendrils of ivy which grew up the building's sides. It seemed strange that Gabriel would care so little about the garden work, considering how much he seemed to care about his own personal appearance. But they were so isolated out here, perhaps Gabriel just didn't care? And why should Jack care, either? It wasn't like anyone was coming to the house that he had to impress. Still, it would be hard for Jack to look at those hedges everyday and not wish to trim them. 

He climbed the stairs to the tall doors, thinking that it would be such a relief to be offered a cup of tea and a place to sit. A greater relief for Gabriel to be there, all wit and sarcasm. Jack took the brass knocker in his hand and let it _boom_ against the door. Then, he stepped backwards and listened. 

There came no voices, no footsteps, no sound of movement inside. For several minutes, he waited. He watched the mare bow her head to eat weeds from the cracks in the driveway. He rolled up his sleeves to hide the worst of the stains on his shirt. He combed his fingers through his hair, realizing that he had done no grooming this morning, although without a comb or pomade, he could barely make the golden mess look presentable. Then, unable to distract himself any longer, he knocked again - louder this time. He called out, "Gabriel Reyes? It's me! Jack Morrison!" 

In the stillness that followed, he imagined he could hear his own blood pumping through his veins and the churning of the ugly clouds overhead. 

Jack feared that perhaps Gabriel had told his servants not to answer for him. Perhaps last night had been too much for Gabriel, and now he was done with Jack and wanted nothing more to do with him. What would Jack do, if that were the case? Who could he turn to? Vincent didn't take him seriously at all. Then again, who would? Without experiencing it themselves, wouldn't anyone listen to Jack's story and believe only that he belonged in an asylum? 

"Gabriel, please!" he shouted, "I need your help!" He threw himself against the door, forgoing the knocker, instead beating upon the door with his fists. If the staff here didn't think him mad already, then surely they did now. He didn't care. He had to speak with Gabriel. 

Unable to stand being ignored a second longer, Jack tried the knob. He was flustered when it opened at his touch with a long, low creak. It had been unlocked. 

He stuck his head inside and cried, _"Hello?"_

The sight of the entrance hall made Jack's stomach lurch. It was dark. Sunlight, or whatever he would call this dreary pale illumination that fell upon the moors, seeped in weed-like and unwanted from the windows, but no candles were lit, so the hall was half in shadow. Even so, he could make out cobwebs delicate as lace visible in every corner, and a coat of dust draped over everything in sight. The paint on the walls was chipped and peeling off in great patches, which laid like snow upon the floor. How could Gabriel live like this? The place looked abandoned!

"Hello?" he called out, and his echo returned to his ears. He stood there, holding his breath, straining to hear any footsteps or hushed voices. Gabriel hadn't made it home, he thought. Something had happened to Gabriel.

 _No, Jack, don't be_ _naive,_ he told himself. It wasn't that Gabriel wasn't answering; he simply was not here. And the real question was - had he ever been here? The home was as empty as Overwatch had been before Jack had moved in. 

No, Jack realized as he stepped further in and took a better look at his surroundings. This place was _more_ empty than Overwatch had been. On the walls were the only artifacts of a better time - fading paintings and fractured mirrors and the fraying taxidermy heads of stags, most of which were draped in moth-eaten, discolored sheets like corpses laid out in a morgue. There was no other furniture in the rooms he could see. No table or chairs in the dining hall, only a sooty black fireplace and a chandelier that had long ago fallen, shattering and sending glass across the floor. No sofas in the salon, although there was the single broken skeleton of a wooden chair before the window. Even the bookshelves built into the walls were barren, not so much as a single musty tome, only mice droppings. In the ceiling were great holes, where Jack could make out the beams holding the place up, and the debris from these collapses had built up into piles on the filthy floor. The staircase might once have been as grand as Overwatch's own, but now the banister was rotting and badly splintered, hanging at a sad angle. And the silence of the place was nearly maddening! He heard his own heavy breaths, the click of his boots on the floors, and a sound that he imagined was the sigh of an aching, empty building, glad to be inhabited again. 

Gabriel did not live here. No one did.

Without exploring any further, Jack turned and hurried back out into the fresh air. The sky was almost the same bruised green shade of the hills, but he was glad to see it, glad to be out of those lifeless walls. Why had Gabriel lied to him? What was Gabriel hiding? He sat down on the steps and watched the horse, still wandering and eating, completely unaware of the eeriness of the situation. He whistled to her, and she raised her pretty head. 

"I should go into town," he said aloud to her, "And stay with Vincent. I need to get away from here."

She took a few steps closer, and Jack felt, for a breathless moment, that they were having a moment of bonding, before she lowered her head to pull up more grasses between her teeth. 

"Don't worry," he assured her, "I'll take both of you horses with me, somehow."

He didn't know how to get them hooked up to these strange foreign carriages, but he'd find a way to keep both animals safe, even if that meant riding one while holding onto the reigns of the other. As long as he worried about the horses, it was easy not to linger on any other issues, but he was deeply hurt. It had been stupid of him, so naive and pathetic - first of all, to feel anything for a ghost, but then to also feel anything for Gabriel Reyes, who was essentially a stranger. But for those few short days, it had been wonderful to feel his heart intertwined with someone else's. He hadn't felt like some lower class farm boy. He hadn't been moping about Vincent. He hadn't been homesick. Life had been exciting. Now, he wasn't sure who to feel more wounded by. The strange liar, Gabriel Reyes who had acted like Jack's closest confidant - acted like he had cared? Or the ghost, equally dishonest, who had taken advantage of his eagerness to be loved? 

"Come on, Girl," he said, rising to his feet and sweeping moss off the rear of his pants. As he walked towards the mare, she obediently closed the distance between them. He stroked her velvet nose, and she snorted hot breath against his palm and fingers as she nuzzled into the touch. Well, at least he had her, he thought miserably. It wasn't much of a comfort. 

They returned to the manor at a trot, Jack hoping that the slower pace would give him a chance to make sense of the chaotic tangle of thoughts. He was torn between countless emotions. He was ashamed of himself for trusting a ghost in the first place, confused by Gabriel's lies, hurt by the actions of both of them, and angry - so, so angry. He wanted to take his anger out on one or both of them, but all he had was this innocent mare beneath him and the empty moorlands, which stretched away from him for barren miles and miles while simultaneously seeming to close in on him, making him feel both lost and claustrophobic. He could flee the manor, but then he had so much of the moor to cross before he got back to the city. He thought that the ride alone would drive him insane. If the Reaper killed him, he wondered, how long would it take before anyone noticed him missing? How long before his body was discovered, if ever? But even as these terrible thoughts occurred to him, Jack very much doubted that Reaper intended to hurt him. In that small way, he still trusted the ghost. Reaper had the ability to end his life so easily, with that horrific power of his, but Jack had slept, completely vulnerable, in that house for several nights, and it would have been effortless for the spirit to ensure that he never woke again. Aside from the violent, delicious pleasure that Jack had tasted, the spirit had never tried to cause harm. Reaper might manipulate him, and he might try to hide secrets from him, but that was where Jack believed it ended. Reaper would not try to drag Jack into death with him, of this Jack felt certain. That meant nothing anymore, though. Jack had to leave the house. He'd go back, get the other horse, and flee. It would hurt him to slip away without figuring out the ghost's mysteries, and he knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering about Overwatch's phantom inhabitant. As terrible as this situation was, it was hard to turn his back on the one soul that had loved him so fearlessly; he wanted to be in love again - in love with anyone - and that was why he had let himself fall so fast into this insane relationship, if that's what it could be called at all. _What if_? he would wonder until the day he died. What if he had stayed? What if the Reaper had been honest with him? What if Gabriel had actually opened the doors for him at Blackwatch? His eyes stung, and he wasn't sure if it was from the wind in his face or the tears threatening to fall, but his cheeks stayed dry either way. 

An unwelcome sight greeted him when he reached Overwatch's grounds. An unfamiliar horse was grazing by the stables, a thoroughbred with a grey coat - much nicer of animal than any that Jack had ever owned. Jack felt both relief and a sickening panic. He knew whose horse it likely was. Few people were aware that Jack had moved out here, and from that number only two came to mind who so loved flaunting their new wealth - his cousin and her husband.

Jack didn't even bother returning his mount to her stall, although he did remove her tack with shaking hands. What would Vincent say about his sudden need to flee the manor? He supposed he was about to find out. 

They ran into each other in the hall as Vincent made his way down the grand staircase. The first thing Jack saw was his red, wet eyes and the fury in his expression. The next thing Jack noticed was the stack of papers in his hand. Jack swallowed. "Vincent, are you okay?" 

Vincent's face visibly contorted from the effort of forcing out words. "No, Jack. I'm not okay. How can I be okay, when you so clearly aren't?"

"What?" Jack asked, although he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He imagined the acid immediately begin to digest the muscle tissue. 

"Imagine my shock, Jack, when, coming up to invite you to another dinner, I ran directly into the same locksmith I had hired, who was now covered in blood and babbling like a lunatic about a demon. And when I get here, Jack, I was worried sick that you weren't answering the door, so I let myself in. I found this right on the front table."

He slapped one of the pages into Jack's chest. Jack, with sudden clumsy fingers, turned it and scanned the words written there. 

_Jack,_

_I did not mean to frighten you last night. Can you find it in your heart to still love me and call me yours? -_

Jack didn't have to read a word more. He recognized this paper. It was his most recent love letter from Reaper, the one he had set down this afternoon before going to find food in the kitchen. Jack felt his face flush hot. "Vince..."

"And then I find all of these upstairs!" Vincent shouted. He threw the rest of the pages overhead, and Jack watched in horror as every single letter he or the Reaper had written to each other drifted down around them.

"Why were you going through my drawer?" Jack asked, narrowing his eyes at his old friend.

Vincent snatched the one from Jack's hands and tore it in half, then again in quarters, before tossing the pieces up, too. His eyes were dripping fat tears. "Jack, you're losing your mind! You can't keep pretending like this! It isn't healthy!"

Jack snarled at him, bending to pick up one of the letters and shake it in Vincent's face. "This isn't pretend, Vincent! This is real! You know my handwriting very well! There is a phantom in this house! The locksmith saw him!" 

Vincent grabbed Jack by the wrist, holding him still, "Jack, the locksmith saw nothing that couldn't be explained. I spoke to him myself. We were in agreement. This is all you, Jack. You're doing these things. Unconsciously, I suppose, as a cry for help."

"No," Jack barked, "Fuck the locksmith. Gabriel saw the ghost, too!"

"Jack, I want you to stay away from him," Vincent said very sternly, like he was chiding a young boy, "I didn't want to say anything, because I thought it was good for you to make friends, but Reyes is extremely unusual. No one knows anything about him. He keeps to himself outside of the season. He's not a good influence for you."

He took Jack's face in his hands, stroking Jack's cheeks with his thumbs. There was no malice in his accusation nor in his expression, and his eyes wept openly for Jack. Jack wanted to hate him, but he couldn't. "Jack, I feel so responsible for this. We invited you here because I thought that you and I could stay close. I thought I could help you come to terms with what happened. I've been so selfish in every way, but what's done is done, and no amount of remorse can undo it. I never wanted to break your heart, but we had to protect ourselves. I thought it would lessen the blow if we became family."

Jack tore himself away from Vincent, his eyes as hot and fiery as Vincent's were wet and weepy. "Vince, this has nothing to do with us. I was getting over us just fine. How dare you accuse me of being crazy? Are you saying you think I snapped because you no longer wanted to be with me? Please, Vincent, don't be so full of yourself. There is a ghost here. Who do you think wrote all of these letters?"

"Jack," Vincent said, still infuriatingly calm, "You could have written them yourself. I'm not saying you did on purpose, but I believe you're very ill..."

"Then explain the flowers, Vincent. You saw them yourself! How could I be getting them from the glasshouse, which is _still_ locked?"

"Well, Jack," Vincent said, "If you have the key, it would be very easy for you to do so. You may not even realize you have the key. Your other subconscious self might have hidden it from you. I've read studies about these kinds of things happening."

Jack's face became hard as stone, his blue eyes searing with fury. "How many years have we known each other, Vincent?"

Vincent covered his face with his hands and gave a miserable moan, "Please, Jack. I'm just trying to help you."

"How many years?" Jack repeated, "Have you known me to act irrational before? Have I ever given you the slightest inclination that I might be mad? How do you intend to help me, Vincent? By locking me away? By writing my folks? Will you tell them that I'm gay, too?"

"Jack! You know that I'd never - "

Something changed in the hall, something so tangible that the argument cut off, and both men went still. The temperature in the home had plummeted, perhaps five to ten degrees, and suddenly all the hairs on Jack's body stood on end. He felt some current dancing across his skin, and it made him shiver. _Yes_ ,he thought, _show yourself. Prove to Vincent that I'm not insane_.

No sooner had the thought finished in his head, then the huge doors behind him flung open; the impact of them crashing against the walls was enough to shake the whole entryway - paintings rattling against the walls, knickknacks threatening to tumble off shelves. Vincent's dark eyes went wide and worried, and Jack stepped between him and the entrance. He regretted what he had thought. He never should have challenged the Reaper to harm Vincent. Despite everything, Jack would protect him to the end. He pulled himself to his full height, squaring off his broad shoulders. He refused to show fear. 

With their breaths held, both men waited for something to happen. Jack expected the phantom's shadows to fill up the doorway, or he expected the dark figure in the skeletal mask to appear on the steps, but all they could see was the brilliant orange sky, swaths of pink and scarlet and purple rising from the horizon as the sunk dipped low. It was the most color that the moors had seen all day, Jack thought. Even the clouds were lit up a glorious gold. 

He sensed Vincent relaxing behind him. "Jack," he said, "You know that I'd never - "

In mid-sentence, Vincent's words were cut off by a shriek. 

Jack spun away from the doors, back to face Vincent, but all he saw was a rolling black storm that filled the hall from floor to ceiling. Vincent was nowhere to be seen, enveloped in the void. Jack could hear the sound of him screaming, and then his screams turning to sobs. He flung himself forward into the shadows, his arms blindly reaching to grab on to Vincent, but the shadows dodged him, moving tornado-like towards the opened doors. Horrified, Jack stared at the empty space where Vincent had stood seconds before. Only the torn scraps of Jack's love letter remained as a sign that the man had ever been there. 

"No!" Jack shouted, "You can't harm him!" He leaped forward, racing across the hall to shut the doors, but the movement of the shadows was too quick for him. Before he had even closed half of the distance, the dark smoke had slipped out into the dusk with Vincent trapped in its tendrils. As soon as they were out, the doors slammed shut again with such force that Jack was thrown off his feet. He scrambled back up, reaching for the door handles and finding them locked.

Of course, locked. He pulled on them with all his strength, digging his heels into the carpet and throwing his weight back with a howl of rage, but the doors did not budge. "Don't hurt him, Reaper!" he yelled. It felt helpless and stupid to stand there pleading like that. Jack trusted the spirit not to hurt him, but Vincent was another story entirely, and he knew he had to do something before it was too late. But what could he do? Perhaps he could break open a window. Or was there another door? 

"The kitchen!" Jack gasped, and he raced for the servant's quarters, his heartbeat so violent in his chest that he felt it was suffocating him.


	8. Chapter 8

Jack slammed his fists down upon the glasshouse door, cursing the architect's flawless construction. The fog and condensation was enough that he could make out nothing but a tangle of green foliage pressed against the walls. Somewhere inside, he was certain, Vincent had been dragged. What would the Reaper do to him? If Jack got Vincent caught up in this mess that resulted in his death, he would never forgive himself. There was another, smaller voice in his head that feared the Reaper might take advantage of Vincent's weakness in the same sexual, brutal way that he had taken advantage of Jack. He felt a flare of jealousy at that, which made him hate himself. How could he still be thinking about the Reaper this way, when he had abducted Vincent?

"Don't you dare harm him!" Jack bellowed, "Leave him alone!" 

When his hands were so bruised and aching that he knew he had to stop, Jack turned from the glasshouse and raced across the grounds, back to the manor. He needed a tool, and nothing like the puny fireplace shovel he had tried to use last time. Something inside of Overwatch Manor had to be solid, heavy, and strong enough to get the job done. He only needed to find it. It was growing darker now by the minute, and he felt desperate to break through the glass before the sun had completely dipped beneath the horizon. When black night stretched across the moor, it would be impossible to keep an eye on the Reaper and his shadows. 

Jack wandered the house, frantic. All of the furniture was infuriatingly delicate, far too fragile to use against the sturdy glass. The heaviest thing was the grand piano, which Jack knew there was no chance of him lifting, not even with so much adrenaline pumping through his blood. If only he had not been talked out of bringing his gun! He dug through drawers in every room, hoping he might find a screwdriver or something that could be used as a pick, but so much of this house was purely decorative; there was hardly anything functional. Perhaps in the stables or gardener's shed, he might find a toolbox of some kind. Or it was possible, he realized, that something useful might be hidden up with the knickknacks stored in the tower room. So he abandoned his search on the ground floor and rushed up the staircase, his pulse so hard he could hear it over his footsteps. As he wove between the sculptures in the upstairs hallway, he felt their marble eyes following him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Marble...

"My God," Jack breathed, as a possible solution came to him. He turned away from the door at the end of the corridor and went to the railing, looking down into the salon below. Then he brought up a leg and kicked through the banister and rails, kicked and kicked. The wood splintered so easily, great chunks raining down into the salon. After he had cleared perhaps three feet, Jack turned and faced the sculptures. The largest was of a nude hunter wrestling a stag. He wrapped his arms around the man's waist and gave a few tentative tugs, but the thing wouldn't even budge. It was far too massive, possibly around seven hundred pounds. Next, he tested a veiled woman. Despite her weight, he was able to get her wobbling. With a manic smile on his face, Jack held the woman around her shoulders and pulled her backwards towards the gap in the railing. Step by step, at an agonizingly slow pace, he was able to drag her down the corridor, the carpet bunching beneath her heavy base. Once he had positioned her in place before the broken section of railing, he came around to her backside. "Sorry, Ma'am," he told her, and he gave her one strong push. She toppled forward and through the gap, doing a slow flip in mid-air. It looked like she wanted to hit base-first, as if she had some sentience and was trying to save herself, but there wasn't enough space between the second and ground floors, so instead she landed length-wise on her back. The sound of her striking the floor below was incredible, the impact seeming to shake the entire manor.

Jack peered down after her, seeing the rubble of beautiful white stone. Some pieces were hardly bigger than pebbles, but much of her was intact, and Jack felt a surge of fresh adrenaline that distracted him from the throbbing of his hands and the new weariness in his arms. He ran down the stairs, two at a time, and into the salon. He was glad for the finely carved wrinkles of veil over her face, which hid her eyes, because he felt certain she would be looking up at him with an expression of sorrow and accusation. He grabbed her head, still attached to her neck and a single lovely shoulder. It weighed enough that Jack strained to pick it up, and he was glad he had spent so many years of his life doing heavy lifting around the family farm. He was sorry to have destroyed such a masterfully carved work of art, and he pitied her as he carried her out the door and back across the yard. "You're about to solve all of my problems," he told her, "I'm sorry, but it had to be done."

The sun was low, now, and the shadows cast were long, dark, and eerie. Stars had begun to peek out of the darkness at the opposite end of the sky. By the time he had reached the glasshouse, his hands and arms, already weakened, were in agony under the statue's weight. He drew a deep breath and tried to tell himself, "One more thing. Just one more thing and this will all be over." It was nice to hear aloud, but it didn't soothe the searing of his back muscles. 

He lifted the hunk of marble as high as he could and then brought it down, letting gravity do much of the work for him. It was like magic. The bust crashed through the glass, and fine lines of cracks blossomed out from the hole before shattering. Jack shielded his eyes with an arm. A wave of humid air rushed out at him, carrying the cloying aroma of flowers and greenery. He inhaled deeply, drawing that scent into his lungs, finding it almost dizzying. With the toe of his boot, he broke through the door until the hole was large enough for him to step through, and then he climbed over the shards and into what felt like another world. 

The first thing he noticed was the temperature. It was at least ten degrees hotter inside the glasshouse than it had been out on the cool Overwatch grounds, perhaps even fifteen degrees. The humidity clung to his skin, making the air feel thick and wet. All around him was green. There were other colors, too, of course; flowers of every color in the rainbow bloomed beneath the glass ceiling, but green was the dominant color, and he'd never seen so much of it in his life. There were fine tendrils of ivy climbing iron trellises, plants with thick and veiny leaves as large as a toddler drooping under their own weight, hedges in shades from mint to pine green. He felt as though he had stepped into a tropical rain forest like he heard about in story books. A path of brick wove between the aisles of flora, leading to a structure at the center of the glasshouse. At first, he thought it must be some kind of gardener's shed, although it was built all in stone, in a Gothic style that complimented the construction of the main house. It seemed strange, he thought, to build a shed in that style. 

"Jack!" a voice gasped.

It was Vincent. He was on the ground, his back against the stone building's wall. Jack rushed forward and took the man in his arm's, Vincent pushing his face into Jack's broad chest. "Are you okay?" Jack asked.

When Vincent didn't immediately respond, Jack realized he was weeping silently, his shoulders shuddering and his tears dampening Jack's shirt. "I'm so sorry that I accused you of having lost your mind," Vincent sobbed, "I saw him. I saw him, Jack. That mask..."

"Are you okay?" Jack repeated himself, because he wasn't certain how to process Vincent's apology. He didn't think he wanted to accept it, not yet, at least. "Were you hurt?"

"No," Vincent said, "I'm okay. He didn't touch me. He just spoke to me. When he heard the glass break, he... he fled."

He finally raised his head from Jack's shirt and pointed a shaking hand towards the stone building's door. It was then that Jack noticed all the details of the thing - the pair of angels guarding the entrance, the cross on the roof's peak, and the letters engraved overhead:

**REYES**

"Oh Jesus Christ..." Jack whispered, suddenly breathless. He pulled himself free of Vincent's limbs and put his hand against the stone, feeling the rough surface against his sweating palm. His eyes remained locked on those five letters, each perhaps a foot wide. He felt sure that he was going to be nauseous. The bile seemed to churn and lurch in his gut. He leaned forward, his brow against the mausoleum's wall, and he closed his eyes, trying to keep the urge to vomit at bay.

"Jack..."

"What did he say to you?" Jack asked.

"Jack, it isn't important. Let's just get out of here."

Jack turned, his eyes blazing, " _What did he say?_ "

"It's absurd, Jack." Vincent had to look away, because Jack's gaze was so intense, so angry. He understood that, while he might have been able to protect Jack from this an hour ago, before he had accused him of being crazy, he could protect him no longer. "He said... He told me that it would have all been okay. He said that you could have had him, and you wouldn't have hurt anymore. He said that if I would only work with him, to keep you away from the glasshouse, then you never would have been sad again."

"Vincent, it _will_ be okay," Jack said, "I won't lie and say that I haven't been hurt, but I do understand. This world wasn't ready for us. You'll be happier inheriting your parents' money, becoming a father... it all suits you. I couldn't have given you that life. I... It may take some more time, but I'm coming to terms with what we've become. And... And I'd rather be your friend than be nothing to you." He gave Vincent a weak smile, which Vincent returned, brushing tears from his face with quivering fingers. 

"Let's leave this place," Vincent said.

"You go," Jack replied, "I have unfinished business." He put a hand on the mausoleum's door, and Vincent gave a small nod. 

"I'll go with you," Vincent said, although the bravery in his voice was contrasted by the terror in his teary eyes. 

"No, just wait for me," Jack insisted, "Back at the Manor. I think you'll be safe in there now. I have to find out what he's been trying to keep from me."

"It's too dangerous for you to go alone!"

"He won't hurt me," Jack said, and he was more certain of this than ever. He gave Vincent a push back towards the broken glass door and let his palm wrap around the iron door's handle. He waited with his breath held, until he heard the tinkling of glass shards as Vincent stepped out through them. Only then did he turn the knob and step into the blackness within the tomb.

In the shade of the mausoleum, Jack became aware of how his sweat made his shirt cling to his skin and the dampness beneath his arms. He could barely see in the dark here; all he could make out was the rectangular shape of a sarcophagus, its sides decorated with some ornate design he could not make out. He reached out, taking small steps forward until his hands touched the stone. Around him, he felt stirring in the shadows and imagined he could hear breathing. There came a dim flash of the little light reflecting off something white. "Reaper?" he whispered. 

He felt the air shift, and suddenly that white mask was inches from his face. He pulled his hands from the sarcophagus and used them to feel for the Reaper's familiar body, the muscled expanse of chest, the curve of his spine, the bulge of his shoulders beneath his cloak, but he found nothing. There was no body to touch. His expression hardened with anger, but he didn't really feel it, at least not to the degree that he knew he should. He had been lied to, Vincent could have been hurt, yet all he felt was pity for this phantom. It was over, Jack knew, and he suspected the Reaper knew, too. This was likely their final chance to speak. It seemed foolish to waste this moment on anger. He'd have the rest of his life to feel furious over what he had been put through and ashamed that he had fallen into this spirit's trap. Now, though, was better suited for solemn goodbyes. 

"Why did you insist on coming in here?" the Reaper asked, "If you had only been content to stay away from the glasshouse, we could have been happy."

"We never could have been together this way, Reaper. This was so exciting at first, but I can't build a relationship upon deception. It is the same thing that hurt me so much when Vincent married my cousin," Jack said, "This is your last chance to tell me the truth."

"I thought if I took Vincent in here, if I told him the truth, then he would be my ally. He could help me keep you from the glasshouse. If he said that it was okay for you to stay away, then you would trust him. But before I could show him anything, you just had to burst in like a hero..."

"Why does he deserve the truth, but I don't?" Jack snapped at him, frustrated that there was no man before him to grab onto and shake sense into. 

"You deserve the truth. You deserve the world. But the truth would keep you away from me," Reaper said. 

"Well, now the deception is keeping me away from you, too. Maybe there's no reality in which we can be together. Maybe it's all a dream in your head. It's time, Reaper. Tell me who you are, and what is your connection with Gabriel Reyes? Although... I saw the name... I think I know... It makes no sense, but I think... I think..." he trailed off, unable to vocalize exactly what he was thinking. It was too crazy, too terrible. 

In response, he sensed the Reaper pulling away from him. A second later, light filled the tomb - a wall torch had been lit by unseen hands. Jack stumbled closer to the sarcophagus, tracing his fingertips over the horrible letters that he wished were not there. 

GABRIEL REYES

"I don't understand. Are you dead, or are you alive?"

The Reaper's shadows moved from the corners of the room, enveloping the sarcophagus. Jack heard the awful scrape of stone against stone, and he winced, looking away from the sarcophagus, unwilling to see whatever it held. He knew that, once it had been opened, he would have to look. He couldn't keep his eyes closed to the truth forever. "Jack," Reaper whispered, and he felt the ghost's cold breath against his neck, "I'm very much dead."

So Jack looked, and what he saw ripped a sob from his throat. Immediately, there were tears in his eyes, and the urge to empty his stomach returned. He fell upon the sarcophagus, reaching for the body it contained, but too horrified to actually touch it. "This doesn't make any sense!" he moaned, "You were alive! You were fine! Just... just hours ago!"

The corpse of Gabriel Reyes lay within the sarcophagus. His skin had lost its handsome, dark color and was instead waxy and pallid. His face was hollow, the tissue clinging to the form of his skull. Jack found the strength to touch him, found him stiff and cold. He laid a hand on Gabriel's lifeless cheek and began to weep, stroking the brittle hair off his brow. "Gabe! Gabriel! I don't understand! Just hours ago... I saw you! We spoke!" he shouted down at the body, and the nausea grew more than he could bare. He fled from the mausoleum's shadows, just in time to spray vomit across the bricks outside. His body weak, sweating worse than before, he fell to his knees, fighting back another wave of sickness. 

"There was a time many years ago," Reaper's voice came from the tomb behind him, "When I could re-enter my body for months at a time. It was easier to cling to life than it was to be a ghost back then. But now, I can barely inhabit my body for a day or two before I need to return it and let it rest. I imagine that eventually, I won't be able to bring my spirit and body together at all."

"So this whole time, it's just been you?" Jack asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

"Will an explanation change anything? I'll still be dead. You'll still be disgusted by me. The truth won't stop you from leaving me here to rot away."

Jack looked up. It was Gabriel speaking - not the ghost - Gabriel Reyes, in the flesh, and he was now sitting cross-legged beside him with his back to the gaping mausoleum door. Somehow, the corpse had been reanimated, and while he still looked unwell, the life was gradually returning to his eyes. Jack shrunk away from him, unable to believe his own senses. "How are you... you... what? I... I don't understand..."

"I was a living man, like you, about a century ago," Gabriel said, "But something was making me sick. I was dying. The doctors told me that fresh air would help, so I moved out of the city. I bought this land. I had Overwatch Manor built. I was such a sucker for the Gothic revival architecture." He gave a joyless, bitter laugh and patted the base of one of the angel statues at his side. "I was willing to try anything to keep myself alive. All these doctors prescribing me poultices and therapies. Nothing worked. I was getting worse. That was when a woman found me. She said she was a scientist and that she was studying the regeneration of the human body. I was so desperate that I agreed to every experiment she came up with. Some of it was pure torture. I knew right away that she was more witch than doctor, but the crazy thing was that it was working. I was getting better. My sickness was going away. It wasn't anything I could see or easily explain to you. Just, I suddenly had my appetite back. I could go for walks without it draining all of my energy. I wasn't aching and nauseous all the time. Whatever was inside my body, eating away at me, was being defeated by her magics and science. I bought the neighboring land and built Blackwatch for her, so that she could live nearby and continue attending to me. I knew that strange things were going on at that property, but as long as she kept me well, I turned a blind eye to it."

He paused to look at Jack, and Jack noticed that all signs of death were gone. In a matter of minutes, Gabriel looked as alive and well as he had last night. His eyes fell to Gabriel's hands, remembering how they had felt on his body. A shudder passed through him, and he wasn't sure if it was more disgust or grief, but all the same, he reached out for those hands, clasping them in his own. Gabriel's body no longer felt cold and empty. In fact, the palms were hot, sweating from the temperature in the glasshouse. Jack laced their fingers together and looked up at Gabriel, using his eyes to urge him to continue. 

"Everything happened so fast. She was accused of witchcraft by someone in town. The witch trials had been over for decades, and the local government didn't want to stir that mess up again. They refused to charge her with anything, and I would have gone to trial on her behalf if they had. I would have spent all my money to keep her safe. I believed in her work. At least, at the time, I did. The townspeople wouldn't stand for it, though. They formed a mob. I wasn't there to witness it, but from what I heard, they brutally attacked her. Then they hanged her. That part of what I told you was, to my knowledge, the truth. Only it happened at Blackwatch, not here. Without her, I didn't last three months. My death was agonizing. I suffered tremendously. I had this mausoleum built. Can you imagine, speaking to a sculptor about your own grave?"

Gabriel pulled a hand free from Jack's and opened his palm. Shadows spread from his hand and disappeared into the dark jungle of the glasshouse, now lit only by the stars overhead. In seconds, the shadows flew back to him and deposited a flower into his open palm. It was made up of a cluster of magenta, tubular petals. The smell it gave off was sickening, sugary-sweet. "Milkvetch," Gabe said, and he transferred the flower, very gently, into Jack's hand. 

Jack took the thing, but didn't look at it, didn't take his eyes off Gabriel. The nausea had passed, but he was feeling so emotionally drained that he could hardly process the information Gabriel was telling him.

"Three days later," Gabriel continued, "I woke up in my own tomb. Something she had done to me had made me keep on living, brought me back to life, I'm not sure. I don't understand it any better than you do. I was alive, but trapped in that damn granite box. For hours, I tried to beat my way out. I clawed at the lid until my fingers bled. There was no one else out here who could hear my cries and save me. I was certain I would die again, of starvation or dehydration, or maybe just from the lack of air. My greatest fear, in those moments, was that I would keep coming back to life. An endless cycle of being awake in my own grave and dying slowly. Wouldn't that be horrible? I was half-mad. Then, in the blink of an eye, I was out. My body had turned to some kind of gas, a smoke or something. You've seen it yourself. I was able to seep through the cracks and come back together on the other side as a ghost. Not only that, but I had the ability to return to my body, seemingly alive. But you know, as well as I do, that alive is the wrong word. In the beginning, I tried to return to my old life as well as I could, although I couldn't let myself been seen around town by the men and women who had attended my funeral days before. It was almost like life, at first, but then it became harder to remain in my body. I started to die again. I was decaying. The first time it happened, I was sure it was for good this time. I returned my body to the tomb and went on as a ghost. But I was able to go back eventually. I've always been able to pick between my two forms, man or ghost, as I pleased. As they've sold off my home, I've worked to scare off every new owner. I had the glasshouse built to hide my grave, and I moved my personal belongings up to the tower room. Everything but the piano, which I couldn't get up the stairs. I made sure Overwatch was known to be haunted so that there were eventually no interested buyers. Until your family purchased the land without even seeing it. I had no opportunity to scare anyone away, not until the day you moved in."

"You didn't exactly do a good job of scaring me away," Jack said, with an unhappy huff of laughter, "Why didn't you just show yourself to me as a man from the beginning?" He closed his hand around the flower, feeling the velvet-soft petals crush in his palm. 

"You were different," Gabriel said, "I wanted you. But the past few years, it's been so hard to keep my human form. I knew eventually I'd have to tell you the truth. I thought, foolishly, that it might be easier for us if I were a ghost. That way when, inevitably, I lose control of my living body, you wouldn't be aware of the loss... Nothing I said was a lie, not outright."

"Ha! That's a joke!" Jack spat, tossing the smashed flower to the brick, where it landed in the wet stain of his vomit, "This whole situation was a lie from the first moment we encountered each other. And you scared my whole staff away! You could have killed the locksmith! You could have killed Vincent!"

"I wouldn't have killed them," Gabriel said, shrugging his shoulders, as though it didn't matter at all, "I never hurt anyone."

Jack clenched his teeth, the pity finally turning to the fury it should have been all along. "You hurt me! I trusted Reaper, and I trusted Gabriel! You should have just told me the truth from the beginning!"

"You would have believed me?" Gabriel asked. "You think I would have stood a chance to win you over if I had introduced myself that night you moved in - _Hello, I'm Gabriel Reyes, the man who lives in your tower and dies in your glasshouse."_

"Well, you certainly don't stand a chance to win me over now," Jack snarled.

And with that, it was over. It felt like the closing of a book, the slamming of a door, the snuffing of a candle. He wasn't even angry anymore, those feelings were done, too. Both men fell silent, listening to each other breathe, sweating in the heat of the glasshouse. Then, Jack, thinking of Vincent, pulled himself to his feet. He felt weak and unsteady. "I'm leaving, Gabriel."

"Jack," Gabriel said, grabbing him by the wrist, "You're just mad. There's no need to go. I'll win you back over. And I'll be honest with you from now on. I have nothing left to hide."

Jack sighed. "You're right, Gabe. You probably could. But I hate this place. I could never be happy here. Do you understand?"

Gabriel stood and cupped Jack's cheeks in his hands. "I understand," he said, and he kissed Jack on the lips.

Jack pulled away, giving a halfhearted laugh and wiping his mouth with his hand, "I just threw up..." Tears blurred his vision.

"I don't care," Gabriel said.

"Gabe, I have to go home. I can't be in this place a minute longer," Jack sighed, rubbing the tears away with the heels of his hands.

"I know," Gabriel said and kissed him again, on the perspiring throat. Jack's hair was feather-soft against his face. Jack turned from him, trying to knuckle away more of the moisture on his cheeks. His fingers smelled like the milkvetch flower. 

Jack blinked back at Gabriel's handsome face, that face he had kissed so many times without even knowing whose face it was. He remembered how comforted he had felt by Gabe's body slipping into bed beside him, the way each flower and love letter had healed the old heartaches that weighed upon him, how enthralled he had been as those broad hands flew like birds across the piano keys at the doctor's dinner party. As furious as he was, as much as his heart hurt, being stuck at this manor alone seemed such a terrible fate for a man like Gabriel Reyes. 

"It's okay, Jack," Gabriel said, sensing his hesitation, "I love you. Go home."

* * *

"It's been a long time since I've been in Bloomington," Vincent said, as he helped his wife out of their carriage. The sky overhead was the crispest, loveliest blue, and, when he took in a deep breath, the air smelled of tilled earth, overgrown grass, ripe cornfields, and sunshine. They were all scents that he had not realized he had missed. 

"Oh, wow!" his wife said, "the fields go on forever!" She held their son in her arms. He was over a year old now and greatly resembled his father, with dark hair and dark eyes, although his skin was as fair and rosy as his mother's. He was squirming to get down, fussy after the long ride from the inn where they had spent the previous night. 

Their hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, met them on the farmhouse porch, a couple of cattle dogs seated at their feet, tails wagging wildly. Mr. Morrison had heavy wrinkles in his leathery, suntanned skin which hadn't been there the last time Vincent had seen him, and it made him feel nostalgic and sad. Time didn't slow down for anyone. "Vincent," the man said, opening his arms, and Vincent allowed himself to be embraced before turning to kiss Mrs. Morrison on both cheeks. 

"Oh, my goodness," she breathed, "is this little Jack?"

She took the baby up in her arms and covered his pudgy face in dozens of kisses. Jack flinched and babbled and reached to be returned to his mother. 

"You got here just in time," Mrs. Morrison said, only squeezing the baby tighter, "We were just about to sit down for supper! I made apple pie for dessert, Vincent, just for you! I remembered it used to be your favorite. Will little man here eat apple pie? I bet you will ~ " Cooing to Jack, she swept indoors with the baby's mother and both dogs at her heels. 

"He's a handsome kid," Mr. Morrison said with a fond sigh, shaking a hand through his silvering hair. 

"Thank you," Vincent said, beaming with pride, "I never imagined I'd be a father."

For a serene, still moment, the two men stood side by side, looking out over the farmlands. Everything glowed golden in the evening sun, and the fields were loud with the buzzing of insects. Vincent swallowed, opened his mouth, but hesitated and closed it again. 

"You want to know where my boy is," Mr. Morrison said. 

Vincent nodded, even though it had not been a question. 

"He's out back," Mr. Morrison muttered, "He's impossible." With that, the man slipped back into his home, letting the porch door swing shut behind him. 

Vincent jumped to the dirt and jogged around the farmhouse. It had been years since he had last stepped foot on this property, but his endless days here in his youth meant its layout was still familiar to him. In fact, just being here made him feel young again, and the years living overseas now felt surreal. Behind the home, he saw the vast expanse of land that stretched to the hills at the horizon, and it might have felt like the moors in its emptiness, although everything was gold instead of grey. There were a few scattered buildings - the stables, the barn, a silo, a toolshed. He didn't immediately see any sign of his longtime friend, not until the sun caught in Jack's yellow hair. He was working a hay baler in front of the horse stables, naked from the waste up and shimmering with perspiration. "Jack!" he shouted, and the blond head looked up. He waved an arm in Vincent's direction, and even from this distance, Vincent could see the white of teeth in his beaming face.

Vincent cursed the fancy clothes he was wearing as he ran across the yard, kicking up dirt with the heels of his shoes. 

Down by the stables, Jack had time to grab his shirt and wipe his face and neck down by the time Vincent had reached him, and he caught the other man tight in a hug. 

"Come on, Jack," Vincent said, "let's get back to the house! I want you to meet little Jack so badly! He reminds me so much of you! And your ma said dinner was ready!"

"Absolutely, Vince," Jack said, "Just let me get everything finished up down here. It'll only take a minute."

"You need any help?" Vincent asked.

"How're you going to help me at all dressed like an aristocrat like that?" Jack teased him, "Nope. I'll be right up."

Vincent gave him a pat on the shoulder and stared at Jack's handsome face for a few intense seconds before turning to make the trek back up to the house. Jack sighed, still grinning. He pulled his shirt back on over his sticky torso and grabbed the bale by the rope around its middle, dragging it into the cool shade inside of the stable, where he tossed it with the others in storage. For a moment, he allowed himself to drop down on the stacks of hay bales and catch his breath, glad for the cooler temperature in the stable's shade and the chance to rest his tired feet. He closed his eyes and raised his shirt to pat his face dry again. 

He was happy, he realized - genuinely glad that Vincent had come, and glad to be home doing farmwork again, and glad to have a godson. His parents were disappointed in him - they still had not forgiven him for returning home early from overseas without a wife - but he thought that things were getting better. They hadn't disowned him, and that was something. Maybe one day, they'd even come to understand him. They had stopped bringing women around for him to meet, at least, and that was something. 

"Jack."

He heard the word spoken in his ear, a sound barely more than a whisper. It made goosebumps break out on his arms. His eyes flew opened. An icy cold had filled the stable, and fingers of black shadows were seeping in from the cracks around the doors. The darkness gathered and solidified, and Jack felt his heart hammering in his chest. "It's the Reaper," he said breathlessly.

It was, although there were no robes and no bone-white mask. In fact, the half-ghost, half-man was wearing worn jeans and a sweat-stained buffalo plaid shirt. Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Jack, are you ever going to get tired of that joke?" he asked.

"Listen, you deserve it," Jack said, grinning up at the other man, "As long as you're doing the reaping around here, I'll never stop. It's too easy."

"Then how about you do the reaping, and I'll look handsome and rugged down here while I work the hay baler?" 

"No," Jack said, "I like it better when I can make fun of you."

Gabriel dropped down into the hay beside Jack and draped an arm over his shoulder. Jack closed his eyes again, leaning in to Gabriel's touch. The contact between them was hot and sweaty, bordering on unpleasant, but he had to take advantage of these stolen moments. His parents still didn't approve of any displays of affection between the two men, although Jack was sure they knew about the loud, sweaty, screaming kinds of affection that happened behind their backs. Things were getting better though, Jack told himself. Maybe one day he'd even be able to tell them both about the reason for the coffin he had built and stored in the empty loft in the barn. Well, no. That would probably be too much for them to take in, no matter how much they might be coming to like Gabriel Reyes.

"Vince just arrived," Jack said. 

"I saw him running down here," Gabriel sighed, and Jack felt those pianist fingers crawl up inside his shirt and play across his muscled stomach. He opened his eyes and found Gabriel half on top of him, those dark eyes blazing with love. "Do you think he still hates me?"

"Probably, yes."

"Do you still hate me?"

"Oh, absolutely," Jack said, nodding his head.

"Fuck you," Gabriel groaned.

To which Jack replied, with a smirk, "Okay. You've got ten minutes."


End file.
